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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



A WOMAN'S VOICE 




=BY= 



ISABELLA CARLISLE PLANK 



MINNEAI'OLIS, MINN. 

Raby Plank Pdht.ishing COMrANY, 
1903. 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Tv/o Copies Received 

JAN 31 1903 

Copytignt tntty 

CLASS ^ XXc. No. 

COPY B. 



753^31 



/^<?3 



Copyright, 1902, by 
ISABELLA CARLISLE PLANK. 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 



HARRISON & SMITH CO., 
PRINTERS AND BINDERS, 
MINNEAPOLIS, - MINN. 



dnli. Ol0«ntrg, i^nmi* mxh l^umanit^. 



To those who have so ardently wished for 
me death of the mind, and heart, and soul; as 
well as to my beloved Living and Dead. 

The Author. 
Eaglehurst, Jan. 1st, 1903. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



Mother, ..-.--- i 

Are We Not, Sweetheart? - - - - - 2 

Violets, .--.--. 3 

Vow-Bound, ....... 5 

Spring's Legato, ------ 8 

The Birth of Passion, - - - - - 10 

On the Shore of Many Years, - - - 12 

The Man-Defying Slave, - - - - - 14 

Death and the Devil, ----- 22 

To a Carthusian Friar of La Grande Chartreuse, - 25 

Shipmates, ------- 26 

Beauty, - - - - - - - - 28 

The Coming Man, ------ 30 

Circe and Her Swine, - - - - - 32 

When the Sentry Slept, - - - - 33 

The Dewdrop and the Violet, - - - - 34 

Hemlock or the Cross, ----- 35 

Rocking on My Heart, - - - - - 36 

South-Wind, ------- 37 

The Silent Passengers, - - - - - 38 

An Arabian Love Song, ----- 40 

To Genius— Nature's God, - - - - - 42 

Sometimes, ------- 44 

Three in One, - - - - - - - 45 

A Hundred Years from Now, - - - - 46 

Ten Things, - - - - - - - 49 



RivEivA, .-.-.-- 53 

To M. V. T., - - - - - - - 54 

The Vai,IvEy of Regret, ----- 55 

A Woman's Face, - - - - - - 56 

On the Death oe a Chii.d, - - - - 57 

To Augustus Thomas Perry, - - - - 58 

Unknown, ------- 59 

Persoi<ve Pensum, - - - - - - 64 

The Prize I Drew, . _ - . - 65 

Her Story, - - - - - - - 66 

His Story, ------- 68 

Mens Conscia Recti, - - - - - - 70 

The Misunderstood, ----- 70 

My Country, - - - - - - - 74 

The Libertine, ------ 77 

To My Arch Enemy, - - - - - 78 

The Romance of a Rose, _ - . - 79 

The S01.1TAIRE, - - - - - - - 84 

Morning, ------- 91 

In The Service of the Soul, - - • - 92 

A Prayer to Memory, ----- 96 

The Dead Sea, - - - - - - - 98 

The Duel, ------- 99 

Love Needs No Defense, ----- 108 

Magdalen, ------- 110 

Shelley, - - - - - - - - 112 

Nature is Just Laughing at Us All, - - - 11'^ 
Cleopatra, ------- 114 

The Picture, ------ 121 

The Battle-Loser, - - - - - - 127 

Dying Woman to Her Soul, - - - - 133 

Until You Came, - - - - - - 139 



The Masterless Woman, ... - 141 

Life's Arithmetic, ...... 141 

Could I But Know, ..... 143 

Brother, .------- 144 

Shakespeare, ...... 146 

To A Leaf, - - - - - - - 147 

Darby and Joan, ------ 148 

Off the Coast of Zanzibar, ... - 150 

Love, -------- 151 

buona notte, - - - - - - - 154 

Goethe, -..-... 155 

Lucy, --..-.-- 155 

Balzac, ..-.--. 155 

H. M., - - - - - - - - 156 

The Desire of the Soul for Harmony, - - 157 

Song, - - - - - - - - 158 

Benjamin Butterworth. ----- 160 

I Had a Dream, ..-.-- 161 

Why War is Wrong, . . - . . 163 

The Poet's Search for the Absolute, - - - 171 

Edgar Poe, ...---- 175 

To the Malignant, ------ 175 

DORATHY, -...--- 176 

Major, - - - - - - - - 176 

The Revolt of the Mind, .... 178 

A Fish, - - - - - - - - 179 

"The Thing He Had Become," - - - 180 

Let Her Sleep, - 182 

Lord Byron, ------ 183 

Hopeless Love, ------ 184 

In My Beautiful Land, ----- 188 

The Masks and the Lady, ----- 190 



MOTHEB^ 



No matter where my song will soar 

It will re-echo the words, no more! 

Sacred though the theme, it seems a sin, 

To have to write it-might-have-been ! 

And 'twere useless for me to rebel. 

For there are more cruel ones, forever and farewell. 

Ah ! well I know it could never be 
That I should cling always "round her knee, 
Yet there comes again the fevered pang 
When mem'ry unwinds her song of songs, 

the one my mother sang — 
And I wish so often, but always wish in vain, 
To have her gentle spirit with me, once again. 

And, on her bosom tenderly be rocked to sleep. 
When tired, of sailing, the treacherous deep. 
For, I know I could forget, the world's alarms, 
Safely slumbering in my mother's arms. 
For all that surges bitterly in the human soul 
For all the fevers, passion-tossed that roll, 
For all the darkest moments tilled with woe, 
Vanish, if an anchor we can throw 
While ploughing through the stormy sea. 
To fasten our life once more to our mother's knee. 



-I 



A.71E WE J^OT, SWBETHBATiT P 

Makbiagk Song, 

We are still together, are we not, sweetheart? 

We have faced some nasty weather, 

Have we not, sweetheart — 

When it poured, and poured, and poured, 

And the lightning flashed, 

And thunder crashed, 

Have we not, sweetheart? 

When skies were dark, and overcast — 
With clouds, of blackest hue — 
We climbed together to the mizzen-mast, 
To guide the ship, till skies turned blue, 
Did we not, sweetheart? 

I gave to you, you gave to me, 
This our promise, when we went to sea, 
To brace each other, on that uncertain tide, 
To love each other, clinging, side by side. 

Tho' we have not always been able 

To aspire together, 

'Twas because sweetheart. 

We met so many pirates and such dirty weather. 

a 



Then, you must know, 'tis not a natural destiny, 
To reach the highest heights of feHcity, 
Every hour, and moment, as we sail, 
It is not, sweetheart, it is not. 

Some day, sweetheart, the sky will turn so blue. 
Some day, sweetheart, you'll know that I've been true, 
Some day, sweetheart, there will be fairer weather. 
And then sweetheart, the secret we will share together — 
We will sweetheart, we will. 



VIOLE.T^J' 

R. S. 

A bunch of violets, just for you. 
Drink from the purple blossoms. 
Fresh with tears of dew. 
Their perfume is their music. 
Yielding, when love's touch is kind, 
A message straight from my heart. 
Though their eyes are blind. 

Or sung to sleep by some gentle breeze. 
Yet memory has power even over these. 
For their blindness makes them shy. 
And to borrow light from the sky. 



When I see the violet, tenderly I think of you, 
When I dream of friendship 
You are my dream come true 
Not because you're blind, ah ! no ! 

And steal the colors from the sky, 

But, because you are good and great, 

And, like the violet, shy. 

So, I need no fresh creation. 

Nor old memories to secure, 

A natural harmony. 

That always seems so sure. 

Nor regeneration to lead me out, and on, 

Up above, and into soul, 

Tenderly though I crave, for these of course I long 

Masterly to sweeten and spiritualize my song. 

Surely these sweet violets can not fail to please. 

They carry their own welcome with them, I know with 

ease. 
Let my "auf wiedersehn," mingle with their breath 
Even if God wills it, not till after death. 



VOW-BO V^2>. 

My Faithful and Most-Gifted Woman Ff.iend, C. P. M. 

She is not robed in 

Scarf, or gauzy veil, 

Behind her follows not 

With downcast eyes, 

An anxious trail ; 

She comes not from the 

Silvery vales of 

"Araby the blest," 

She brings me not 

Its scent and soul, 

Nor rains down at my feet 

From flowing streams, 

O'er mossy banks 

From winding valleys sweet, 

The nectars of the orient ; 

But she drifts into my 
Solitude, this vow-bound 
One I love, — a princess 
Of the guard of virgins 
Around the cross, — and 
Though, wedded to the church 
'Tis the world that suffers loss. 



As I wander back among 
The sheaves of flowers, 
And in language of mine own, 
Mark the passing hours, 
There comes a surge, and 
Toss, of memory's waves. 
And high above the foam 
I see her shedding manna, 

To us pilgrims, from 

Her far-off Convent home, 

In a cozy forest nook. 

Where trembling flowers 

Borrow light. 

From her suppliant prayers. 

That rise for all. 

Perchance for me. 

To guide us through the 

Narrow straights, leading 

To eternity. 

All this I see, — and 

More, — the faint image of 

A maiden called by her 

Mother, Catharine. 

Whose glowing heart 
Was offered not 
To the cruel maelstrom. 
In the world's cold mart. 
And, from tender glimpses, 
Tinged by the passing shade 
Of some saddened 



Yester — years, 
Sounding- on my heart 
Like the sobbing of the 
Bulbul's tears. 
And filling my memory, 
To warm me through the day, 
For my soul has not 
Forgotten, if my senses 
Stole away. 

As, again I hear the calling 

From the Convent bell, 

I am filled with mysterious 

Pity, for the ruin that befell, 

As, I count the sombre beads. 

Upon the thread of memory. 

Think of all my day-dreams. 

Inhale the perfume that 

They leave, 

For the light that gave them 

Birth was cruel to deceive. 



ST'RIJSrC'j: LEGATO. 



When bubbling sunshine from the summer 

Broke, 

There came a ray 

This winter's day, 

Out across the ice, where children play. 

The hardy breath of mid-winter's death 

Is cloaked, 

A promise for the spring now blows, 

In gurgling waters, in the underflows 

Of streams, reaching for the light, 

To gleam 

Through crevice, of their winter night. 

There is a hush across the sky. 

Smiling high. 

As over valley rings the song of breaking 

Slumbers, 

Listening close, for echoing thunders. 

And, the sunshine sending out its beams. 

To speak. 

And seek. 

The mating streams. 

8 



Then shall these things be here 
In sunny cooing, 
Come all decked and clear 
For Spring's sweet wooing. 

Alone, shall break the first note. 
Of music choice, 
Springs early rippling voice, 
Across colors of a robin's throat. 

Thus, shall eggs speckled dark. 

Stir in cosy nests, 

And in grass. 

Of the meadow lark. 

Just stealing gently, mild legato. 
Fearing blowing winds 
And, mayhaps, more frozen water, 
Past storms have taught her. 



THB 'BI'RTH OF PAS:s:iO/^. 

Thought, being tired, one day, felt 

lonely, 
And gazed from his dome, into 

the 
Heart, at feeling; 

she 
Answering, shyly murmured, I to 

am alone. 
He stealing to her side, she 

became his bride. 
So passion was born, 

one 
Fatal morn, to thought, and 

feeling. 
Thought said that now, he would 

prefer 
To be alone. Feeling, growing 

warm, 
Pointed to his dome. 
Claiming the heart, for herself, 

as 
Her ancestral home. Passion 

combining 
The two, took a different view, 

and 
Howled at this calamity, 

and 
As he grew, felt keenly the 

disaster, 

10 



And rushed, in anger to the world, to 

be its master. 
Feeling, weeping alone, within the heart, 

grew sad, 
And, tearfully, appealed to reason 

to control their lad. 
Heart, he answered, do not sorrow, 

we were 
Made to suffer, own no tomorrow. 

passion is all, 
Commanding full share of power, 

and beauty, 
Laughs at you for weeping, 

bids me 
To 'tend to duty. 
From passions vital springs 

will come 
All there is. Even Kings, 

the 
Power of church, and state, and 

romance. 
And though shafts are hurled at him 

to kill 
He only smiles, destroys, or builds 

at will. 
Is often on the winning side 

between 

The soul, and heaven. 
And if loser, is the precious leaven, 
and does 

His reign prolong 

for he's 
The power in music, religion, 
art, and song. 

11 



OJSf THE. JSHO'RE, OF MAJ^V VE.A'RJ:. 

Wbitten for the Thirty-Second Anniversary op the Marriage of 
Mr. and Mrs. Geo. M. Hunt, and Mr, and Mrs. Fred L, Smith. 

In the hush of quiet twiHght, 

When the past has rolled away, 

With its doubts, and cares, and trials, 

Speeding onward through the day. 

When no sound of surging life 

With its bustle, and its strife. 

Flings its noisy path across our way ; 

When the soft fair sky so true. 

Sends its fleecy clouds 

To mingle, with the warmer blue, 

And on the. scroll indite 

Up there above the light. 

How, trustingly, we sent 

Our bark adrift together. 

Touching on the shores of many years, 

In many kinds of weather, 

And like sailors, looking 

At each other, with an asking eye. 

Fearing not the storms. 

If knowing they were nigh. 

And sure to be brewing, 

In a changing sky. 

Pushing back the busy hand 

Of fancy, I see, gleaming, our bark. 

Lying anchored, on the placid 

12 



Breast of waves, 

Snow-fed and clear, 

Whose pearly lustre 

Shimmers in the moonlight, 

Sending soft breezes to us. 

As we rest. 

Calmly looking back 

On our walk together, 

Some days there were 

Like rainy Autumn weather; 

Some days the star of hope shone bright 

Again the song of sorrow 

Sobbed through the night, 

Days there were void, and dim. 

Followed by triumphal hymn. 

Phoenix-like, soared above 
In full blaze our early love, 
Of long ago, whose notes 
Were tender, soft and low. 



13 



THE MA.JV-DEryiJVG STLA^VE 



In an atelier of Paris, 

Not so many years ago, 

Dwelled an artist, and a maiden, 

(Let me tell this soft and low.) 

He the rising painter, Gabriel, by name, 

Working for the Sultan, for glory, and for fame 

Met the semi-barbarous Fatima, 

An Oriental, it would seem, 

Beautiful as an houri, haunting as a dream. 

Not so very tall, yet of fine stature. 

And of peculiar charm. 

Combining power, with melting softness. 

An adept, with all the harm 

Of Eastern skies, glowing, and 

Burning, in her voluptuous eyes. 

Placid her face, reserved as any 

Nymph by Asiatic Bosphorus, 
Or forest of Belgrade, 
Where the women are slaves. 
Yet do not toil, for it is against 
The doctrine of this idalian soil. 
One day Gabriel, wandering to Cairo, 
Nirvana to seek, had handed him 
The Koran, by a roaming sheikh, 

14 



Coming from afar, with Egyptian 
Gold coins, for the fine bazaar. 
And, as the cHmate is both mild 
And sound, the artist bought 
The prophesy, and sat down on the 
Ground, leaving the old sheikh 
To turn himself around, towards 
Kibleh, to pray, head pointed 
East, to Mecca, the most proper way. 

But, any one who has read Mohammed 

On a morning, fierce and red, 

Will observe and wish that Islam. 

O well, Gabriel nothing said, 

About the son of Abdallah, 

But turned the pages, and read 

The rich and effusive language, 

Written there on gold, 

For they do things well in that 

Country — I am told. 

Gabriel, observing that the prophet 
Made contradictions, once or twice, 
Concluded that things Eastern 
Suffered for lack of ice. 
And, hearing from a distance 
Under a doom-palm's shade, 
A voice, of touching music. 
Surely coming from a maid. 
It rose in glorious beauty. 
The notes both loud, and long, 
Throwing out the melody 

15 



Of a Bedouin song, 

As it wandered from a black tent, 

Near some sacred well. 

Not "holy zem-zem," 

This much I can tell. 

Gabriel closed the Koran, 
To find the gorgeous thrills, 
Echoing in beauty, across 
Mokattam Hills; 

And, as he searched, he wondered 
If the lady were old, or young. 
And, if Turkish or Arabic 
Would be the proper tongue 

Of her family, or distinguished tribe, 

And, if dressed in gaudy rags 

Be open to a brib«, 

To desert her sunny land, 

For the Parisian tide. 

When he saw Fatima 

And found she spoke no French 

He employed some other way — 

Perhaps it was his eyes — 

That tempted the abandonment 

Of her native skies. 

Fatima, in some ways, was quite young, 

Yet an enigma, to be sure, 

For, in others, she was very, very, mature. 

And she had roamed, it seems, 

From place to place, for when 

16 



Gabriel put her in a cottage 

On the Seine, the cry went 

Around the studios that beauty 

Was there again, the model 

Most ideal, whose charms were very real. 

Alexis came, one fatal day, 
To borrow her from Gabriel, 
For his tale of Eastern lore, 
Promising, for the poses, 
She should wear a crown of roses, 
And something more. 

Seeing, she was surpassing fair 

He offered her, I may say, more than prayer, 

For she had pouting lips, 

Delicious nose, hair of flame, 

And curving toes, 

But Fatima was quite erratic. 

And insisted, with words emphatic, 

That while a chaplet of roses, pink, 

Were quite the thing, she could not think 

Of just these alone — and as she 

Lay, to depict a bartered slave, 

Insisted she must quite behave. 

So on her bosom, fair, she threw 

A gauze — pearly fair — 

Or, it may have been an ashy hue. 

Or, perhaps, a soft grey blue. 

With just a rippling sheath 

Of rose, from living flesh beneath. 



17 

—2 



She looked a sleeping — what shall I say ? 

One thought of lolling lotus on 

The water, as he gazed at the 

Slow Nile's daughter, 

And in those eyes, as she crouching lay 

To tell the story of a slave at bay, 

All the menace, and the power, 

Of the tiger cowered 

As she quivered with pain 

During the posing hour. 

Then, with a bolt, she sprang 

From off the couch, to sing, 

As from palest moon there rose 

A soft unanchored light, stealing 

Through the lattice, from the glorious night 

Into the artist's room. 

The picture is very sweet, it seems, 

She told him — almost like the dreams 

Sometimes, unconfessed, of the desert 

In my country, looking toward the West. 

I see the cloud of yellow dust, 

And my, over-flowing, red old Nile, 

Slowly moving, and a crocodile, 

Also a pigeon, white and pink. 

Thou art. fair, Alexis, still 

This painting silent is, and heavy. 

It does not stir. Ah! for just 

A dancing whirr, like this, 

And this — and this — 

Music — a song-rapture — bliss. 

18 



No — no — Alexis not a kiss. 

My fair, my fair "Gazelle" 

I love, I love thee well. 

All the story of your Eastern skies 

Is written — ma bella — in your 

Glorious eyes. But here, not 

Far away — is a coast — a shore 

A sea — from Nice to Spezzia. 

Ah ! Fatima — this little hand 

I kiss — ma-doux-mi — please. 

Lying lonely in the shadow 

Is a blaze of sweeping glory 

Grand exultant red — 

Listen to the story — fair "Gazelle" 

The sun — the sun you love so well 

Hot child of the desert — let me tell- 

Dies behind the Mountain. 

But here, Ah ! yes 'tis fair 

And the skies are blue 

Not quickly fading as with you. 

For the distilling sweetness of the 
Breath of new-mown hay, 
Settles on the ripening clover, 
Seeking out the sweetest way, 
To meet the falling dew, 
Bent on embracing all the flowers, 
True ma bella, true. 

And shallow streams, making 
For the river's bend, 

19 



Sing their dreamy lullaby, without end, 
All for thee ; and from marsh 
And tree hurry by uneasy 
Birds, at the threatening sky, 
When it rains — what tears ! 
Then there is Genoa — and Rome ! 

Starting up, Fatima gazed around her, 
For it was the vesper hour, 
As a voice, of splendid music, 
Thrilled her with its power. 
Tell me, Alexis, ere I sink in death. 
Whose music is wafted from that breath? 
That is a holy friar, in yonder abbey, 
Behind whose walls he toils, and 
Works, for something above, 
Higher, than woman's love. 

That is he, near the yellow corn. 
Singing, blithe as bird at early morn, 
No more by the world remembered, 
His life — web torn. 
Ah ! Alexis, thou art sweet and kind — 
And is he the muezzin — old and blind? 
Not so — Fve known him long. 
Often Fve heard that voice in song; 

At matins, at lauds, and at 
Vesper hour. 

Would I were a bird on yonder 
Bough, Alexis, silent I would be, 
And flit from tree to tree. 



While he sang-, his song of songs to me, 

Hushing the breezes on the 

Summer seas. 

Ah ! Alexis, I should dread the 

Lonely wood, were he not there, 

To hide my blushes, 

With those trembling gushes. 

But, say Alexis, hark! a bird 

I'll be — and sing a song that 

He will hear — and know, 

That I love him so. 

And, listening, he. will dread the knell 

Of the Abbey bell, 

For I — the nightingale shall be 

For him — Alexis, listen thee. 

Ah ! Fatima pity me. 

And the maid Fatima 

With the blood of Egypt throbbing high. 

Sent the sonorous melody 

In passion to the sky, 

Then down to earth again, 

Where it reached his soul, so pained, 

Tugging with her woman — voice 

At his manhood, chained. 

He looked up at her, 

Looked once again. 

He heard the distant chime, 

Knelt in prayer. 

And the Abbot found him, 

21 



Kneeling there, quite alone, 
For his soul — his soul had flown. 
And Fatima softly murmured 
Alexis — you may go alone to Rome. 

And the lady danced a two-step through the picture; 
Mon Dieu ! said the painter, what an acrobat ! 
La, la ! trilled the model, didn't you know that ? 



TiBATH AJ^Tt THE, 7}EVIL. 



Death, you are my slave! 

quoth Evil, 

to his Majesty, 
It seems to me, you rave, 

and I have 

not far to seek, 
To point the reasons, why you speak 

to me, with 

such authority. 
You are a sophist. Evil, 

I can not 

afford to waste 
My breath, quoth the cunning Death. 

though, I may 

fawn on thee, 

22 



To snare, you have yourself 

to thank, for not 

being in my rank. 
Why I am so isolate, that 

I dictate 

to King's, 
Of Earth, and itinerate, 

whither and whence 

I please. 
At best, you are but Jacobin 

and, should 

I choose, 
I could coquet with thee, 

and, if I cared, 

to try, I could, 
With, insolence, estop your 

feeble cry. 

why compared 
To me, you are a snob, 

sturdy, sombrous, 

and astute. 
But, Evil, you make me snigger 

thinking to be 

my substitute. 
I am sorry that you force me 

to exhume 

from my 
Bewildering lore, things you 

should have 

known before. 
Still you are an artist of your 

Class, a paragon 

23 



Indeed, and our 
Esprit de corps will admonish 

us, to let it pass 

tho' I do not need 
Your creed. Forgive me. Death 

for forgetting 

you are supreme. 
Double-anchored at any end, 

'twere madness 

to offend. 
Nay, said Death, you furnish 

me with means 

are my main 
Support. I do not you 

underestimate 

so, in token 
That I forgive, I make you my 

surrogate, 

which means 
That you must drudge, and 

since you 

are to act, 
For me, I will not call you 

mome, for 

you're not free. 



TO ^ CA'RTH\/j:iAJV F'RIA'R OF 
LA CRA^fDB CHA'RT'REX/SrE. 



We pay for all our joys, 

If they be great. 

Since, once, within my heart 

Thine own did lie 

Complete the trust, 

Unclouded the sky, 

A monody you do not intone, 

For there are tears, woman's own. 

And, the memento you so kindly sent 

Across two seas, for my punishment, 

Is a cruel painting- of the past, 

And shows you, still, so highly militant, 

That I know it will not last. 

Since you were once the centre of my every look and sigh, 

You can but know the void there is 

Since the flame of love must die, 

When the light that gives it birth 

No longer glows within the eye. . 

If, sometimes, you walk beneath the shining stars 

Or, alone, within the Abbey cell. 

Remember me, Philip, as you pray 

'Twas pride, not Philip, who barred the way. 

25 



SHITMA TES. 

Written for Royal Abcanum Banquet, Minnkapoi^is, Feb, 24, 1899. 

When men are linked, as brothers, in a fine 

and royal band, 
When they stand for help to others 

and feel and understand 
There is joy in Mercy's mantle, 
Take Virtue by the hand 
To welcome with broad Charity 
The feeble of the land ; 
Oh! then 'tis when fair manhood 
Shines with a regal light ! 
And thus it is, my brothers, 

We welcome ye tonight. 

If we take the hand of sorrow 
And let its grief go by in joy 
There's benediction for the morrow, 
There is, thus, a fine alloy 
In the burden left by sorrow 
That haunts the face of joy. 

So take the hand of sorrow 
Bid to joy good morrow. 
And through all time attend ye! 
While the circle of this rarity 

26 



Bound by bands of human Charity, 
Shall find all men are happy 
Who march in Mercy's band. 

So there's magic in these three ; 

"Virtue, Mercy, Charity" 

That bind us for others, 

Join us as brothers, 

In a circle, great and wide ; 

And every man among us 

We like him at our side. 

So brothers, we are shipmates. 
That trail a mighty sea. 
And at our helm, emblazoned, 
Floats the flag of Charity, 
Above a mast called Goodness, 
That is seen, both far and wide, 
From a vessel made of Mercy, 
Rocked by Virtue's sunny tide. 

Let us, proudly, float our banner 

to the breeze, 
As we gaily sail the rocking seas. 
Let us grasp each other's hand, 
And as comrades let us stand 
For all time, and for Eternity. 



Have you seen 

The crystal gleam, 

Shining, on the snow-fed river? 

Do you know that against the height 

There sparkles glowing, glistening light? 

Do you know the rich, rich wood 

Belongs to us, for God is good? 

That every tint that delights the eye 

He has given us, in the sky, 

In plant, in bird, and flower 

Varied, to suit the time and hour. 

And colors, gorgeous or soft, may shine, 

Be found in shell of ocean. 

Be found in gem of mine. 

And not have satiety, 

For there is infinite variety. 

There's beauty in a field of grain, 

Sympathy in the pouring rain, 

It's glorious to watch the soaring lark. 

There's friendship in the watch-dog's bark. 

There's much, as well, to say 

Of mountain, thunder-storm and brae. 

And the sandal-wood is sweet, 
When bleeding at your feet, 



Even leaf-bud in the sheath 

Says there's beauty underneath. 

Have you heard the blackbird's call? 

Sweetest, clearest notes of all. 

Have you ever, wandering, strolled 

O'er some meadow, green and gold, 

And in some cooling waters wade 

Basking near some sylvan shade 

That threw shadows from opening glade? 

Have you seen the bubbling clover shake 

As o'er the meadow it blooms, awake? 

Have you known how summer's spirit grieves 

As on her dying breast fall Autumn leaves? 

Have you seen the twining ivy vine 

Cover the vanished beauty of some once-loved shrine? 

Have you seen pale lilies peep 

When they dreamed the waters were asleep? 

Have you inhaled the perfume of abandoned flowers, 

While they shed their petals in stolen hours? 

Have you heard the aged forest sigh 

And through it echo the night-wind's lonely cry? 

Or listened to the silence in some neighboring wood 

Deserted by all, but darkness, and solitude? 

And, in the stillness of uncertain light, 

Have you watched the coming of the kindly night? 

Have you ever been alone in some moonlit vale 

And heard the liquid notes of the amorous nightingale? 

Have you seen how russet colors flourish upon the ground, 

And do you see the beauty every where around? 

For if you bring your light along, beauty may be found. 

29 



UHB COMIJ^G MAJSl 

I dreamt — I think it was but yester-night, 

and, sorrowing-, I wept, 
For I wandered over silent battle-fields, 

as I slept; 
And, my spirit drank of the stream of Lethe, 

for forgetfulness I sought 
In its waters, from the havoc 

my soul had wrought. 
And, as I slept, I soared away, 

from our lower world. 
And my prayer, to the God above, 

for indifference, was answered 
By a vision, or a dream and there unfurled 

a banner^ which bore 
The colors of my country, true, 
And he, who bore the emblem, 

was fairer, and more beautiful 
Than Antinous. And he smiled, as I 

watched him, as I did of a truth. 
For his face bore the mastering 

opulence of youth; 
And he seemed, to me, to be of great 

simplicity. 
And I pictured, also, that his 

sympathies were broad, and very 

30 



Human, and his energy was massive, 

and he was gentle as a woman, 

And affectionate, with genius spiritual, 
and he had other qualities, 

Often hard to find. 

He combined courage, with humility. 
He had skill, and was apt at observing, 

his method was logical. Oh! he 
Was deserving! And, it seemed to me, 

he was the great monopolist. 
For he had all the treasures, he was 

also very bold. 
And he reasoned well, from facts, 

that told; 
And, as I watched him, moving around 

the silent battle-field, 
With the colors of my country 

floating above him, as a shield. 
He seemed so strong, and brave, and free, 

that as he passed along 
I could not imagine him party to a wrong, 

nor victim, of the things 
That curse humanity ; 
Or small, with all the vices of 

its vanity. 
And then I 'woke, with this vision 

surging in my blood. 
All was darkness, chaos, and I stood 

like Moses, on the Mountain of Nebo 
Longing for the land, where he never was to go, 

for this imposing figure 



Of a man, will be for the woman of 
another span of years. 

When treachery, and false promises 
will be unknown. 

And there will be no tears. 

But the dream was all my own. 



cmcK Ajsriy hb'R s'wijve. 

You were but savage — I had not far to go 

To clog your memory and cover you with brine 

To make you now my swine, 

I am less merciful than God 

Since he committed no treason 

For He gave you the gift of reason. 

You were built in the shape of man 
And I have turned you into these, 
With my "Pramnian wine and cheese." 

And you were, so nearly, as you are now 

That it needed but the lair 

Of my bright hair, to show you how. 



And though I have you in my stye 
Still you knew the way — I did not lie. 
There is no greater punishment then, 
For you know you should be men. 

And you were not even one with Nature, 
Who is unaware of the laws of man or devil, 
Since you were not even an impetuous rebel. 



te^HB^f UHE JTEJVTHy ST L E 7* T . 

The world that takes your soul. 

And body, and turns them on its wheel. 

Conquers, only if you say so. 

You, yourself, can triumph long 

If you but brace your nature, 

To suffer and be strong. 

For then will come glad victory's hour 

Loud ring its clanging bell 

For by your strength you conquer 

And cheat the fiends of hell, 

Who wander around among us, 

Ah ! pity them ! for see 

In their souls the burden 

Of torturing you and me. 

33 



For where you find a desert 
In a single human heart, 
There you may know a devil 
Has played his cruel part. 

In the gamble he is victor, 
He the thief who stole 
The treasure and the sunshine 
Of a happy soul. 

When the sentry slept. 

For the night was cold, and chill. 

And lonely, and the picket far from camp ; 

The stars were muffled 

Silent ; no light within the lamp 

That hung on high. 

Beyond the mountains 

In the frowning sky. 



GHE TiBW'D'ROT A J^ Ti UHE VIOLET. 

The dew-drop asked the violet 

If she could live without his kiss. 

The violet blushed, and smiled at this. 

The dew-drop asked her once again, 

The violet only smiling, he had asked in vain. 

34 



The dew-drop glistened full and round 
A brilliant diamond in the violet's crown. 
Don't you think the violet cruel, 
To disdain this shining jewel, 
With his perfect big round O, 
Who loved her so? 



HEMLOCK. O'R THE, CROSS. 



I could deny that life holds 

For me no hemlock cup, 

Clear-sighted this would be, 

Yet the denial would not hold me up. 

Guided by Judas, perhaps there is no loss 

In a betrayal that leads one to the cross. 

Bewildered by the assassins of love, and truth, 

And the knowledge that the dollar will always soothe, 

The loathsome spy, and his more loathsome wife, 

Who chuckle at the morsel of a fellow-human's life. 

Whose power they wish to turn to storm, 

And compel her, for peace, to raise her arm 

And send a bullet through her head, 

Gazing, in triumph, at her, lying dead. 

Believe me, there is no tomorrow 

For a soul whose song is sorrow. 

35 



For the children, made by Cain 

Happy only when there's pain. 

Clamor wildly in revolt, and burn, 

For the destruction of a nature great, and spurn 

Its flights, rising to the skies, 

Spit in its face, and bind its eyes, 

And whip to the "palace of Herod." 



'ROCK.IJ^C OJV My HBA'RT. 

I sat, one night, in rainy August weather, 
I thought, somehow, we were yet together, 

My boy and I , 

This was long ago, 

That to, and fro, 
I heard a Mother rocking. 
Rocking on my heart. 

I thought I saw a curly head 

Sleeping on that breast 

And a tatto made of tiny hands 

Beat the baby's nest. 

Again there rose the slumber song 

Hush-a-by it came. 

Rocking there upon my heart 

Rocking once again. 



Hush-a-by, she sang, 

And down to me there rang 

The lonesome echoes. 

Yet, somehow, I had no part, 

In the air that made me start, 

Yet slowly she kept rocking, 

Rocking on my heart. 



srox/TH xoiTf'D- 



No beggar's voice floats on your seas, 
O ! fragrant, sighing breeze. 
Wafting some sweetest songs and lore, 
To me, from sun-kissed Southern shore. 

No beggar's voice, yet pleading full with ease. 
Sweet-smiling on me, so sure to please, 
O! south-wind, gently touch and kiss 
With your soft magic, to increase my bliss. 

Still, wert thou beggar, seeking some return 
For favors once bestowed, I would not spurn 
Thy caressing voice, for I'm alone 
South-wind, bear this message home. 



Honey suckle scent, and twilight hour 
I see, O! south-wind, every flower, 
Magnolia, sweet southern pine. 
And dream O! south-wind, I still am thine. 

Yes, there are memories fair southern breeze, 

But ask me not always to live on these, 

O! south-wind, bear my sob to your land 

And mingle my tears in your soft southern sand. 

In beauteous far-away, which once was home, 
Before I became wanderer, like lone bird to roam. 
Carry these words back with your spell. 
Kiss me goodnight , come say farewell. 



The Bargb Roumania Brought Six Hundred Bodies fob Interment in the 
United States, from Cuban Battlefields. 

The old Emperor, Atlantic, turns aside his 

head to weep. 
As a ship, with sleepers, laden, sails across 

the mighty deep, 
And he murmurs, O ! so softly, lest some 

anxious one below 
Should break his bonded sepulchre, 

seeking iust to throw 

38 



One last gleam, 'mong the spars, 
From a spirit bold and haughty. 
Full of strength, to reach the stars, 
And a manhood, crowned with beauty. 
Strapped, and buckled, for the fray, 
Since 'twas thus he kissed his Mother, 
One sweet morn in May. 

Now he sleeps 'midst fallen brothers. 

Six hundred by his side, 

In the floating barge, Roumania, 

In silence they abide. 

Chained in eternal slumber, 

Monuments of bones, bleaching on this ride, 

To the sluggish surging, of the moaning tide, 

Back of them the battle field. 

Of musket, and of sword. 

Firm, and true, they did wield, 

Believing in the Lord, 

Proud of heart, forgetting not to look above. 

Knowing that He guards His own, 

With mercy, and with love. 

Now the clouds, so dark, and overcast, 
Shroud the banner, on the mizzen-mast. 
And the trembling stars upon the white. 
Shiver in their colors, as they seek the light. 
To guide to their Country's fold. 
These sleepers, to rest in honored mould. 
And, when the flowers are blooming 
In sunny weather, 

39 



These six hundred comrades 

As they sleep together; 

Far from worldly pomp, and pride, 

Will have penciled to their memory 

They for their Country died. 



Sung from a Nightingale's Tiikoat. 

'Twas such a night as this, dear one, 

By the murmuring tide of yonder stream, 

'Twas such a night as this, beloved, 

Thy shadowy form rose in a dream, 

By the spangled moonlight quivering. 

I sobbed aloud, for the luscious night 

Stirred every frond, basking in 

Shadow, of woodland pond, 

And, from this height, I poured my love, 

Into deeps beyond, to the glorious night. 

I saw thee toss thy small brown head, 
And crush the hearts of the roses sweet. 
Beneath the tread of thy tiny feet. 
I sang and sang my soul away, 
Drunk with delight, as a birdling may. 

40 



Sheltered, neath a dew-kissed flower 

I poured my burden of song to the hour, 

And in thine eyes I saw such bHss, 

As the breezes soft carried my kiss 

While the poppy flashed its warm red light, 

That glowed and shone in the perfect night. 

As I spied thee perched on a lily's cup. 
Whose golden torch proudly held thee up, 
And since thou wert such a tender thing 
Thou soared away on my broader wing. 
To mossy banks, in deeper dell, 
O'er golden sands, where violets dwell. 

'Twas such a night as this, dear one, 

By the murrpuring tide, of yonder stream. 

'Twas such a night as this, beloved. 

Thy shadowy form rose in a dream 

By the spangled moonlight quivering. 



GO CKJVI\/j:—JVAT\/'RE'jr GOT} 

Impartial nature lent her rain-bow 

hue, 
And, into the colors, her life and soul 

she blew, 
From her deep heart there 

came 
A special intoxication, a 

flame 
All her own, born of love, 

ravishing, 
Languorous, soft, gentle, as a 

dove. 
Deep-echoing, from her mighty 

throat 
She drew a precious 

note, 
Burdened with beauty, as she 

brought it forth. 
From her hidden womb 

some 
Sparkling fire, to consume 

the groans, 
That fate would send, 

opposing 
Her progress to the end. 
And, from out her rich mould 

42 



all the while 
Smiling, as she rolled, 

its ductile atoms, 
To fix a bower, 

she drew 
Some unseen power, 

and, 
Bending near it, 

penetrated 
With her spirit. 

And seamed, with scars of 

fun. 
Her signs, and symbols, 

one, by one. 
Which told the tale of mastery; 

then 
Nature, great artist that she is, 

producing 
When she may, some special 

form 

Of bliss, piled up and on 
This thing she called 

her own, 
A flavor peculiar, to make 

it stand alone. 
Take every shape of thought, 
Every tone of mind, 
Be a match for fortune 

and 
Make poor Cupid blind. 

43 



jrOMETlMKSr. 



Sometimes, through clouds of smoke, 
I see a face once dear to me, 
To brood, to dream, to love again, 
Would be, for me, most cruel pain. 

Sometimes, for me, those dreams I see 
Come true again, but in the smoke. 
The blue smoke winds around my life 
The ash, the fiame, the smoke is strife. 

Sometimes, when in the twilight hour, 
I smoke, I dream, I brood once more, 
Sometimes, the scent like some sweet flower, 
Haunts, and moves me as of yore. 

Sometimes, the hearts of roses lie. 
Bereft of petal, perfume, flower, 
So walks my heart in sorrow by 
The sweetness, called of life the dower. 

So, so, dear one, I bid you leave 
Me dream, once more, though love be dead, 
Till from my veins my blood shall creep, 
And scatter joy, above thy head. 

44 



Ah me ! Ah me ! the night comes on, 
Pale grows my dream for thee, for thee, 
Again the stream of hfe moves on, 
But not for me, but not for me. 
Across the hours of Time's bold dial, 
I can not flee. I can not flee. 

Sometimes dear one, thy face, thy voice 
Come back again, so hauntingly, 
Sometimes, dear one, thy heart thy soul, 
Seem but for me, seem but for mc. 

Again I see 'tis through the smoke 
'Twas but a dream, 'twas but a dream. 
Across the years 'twas love that spoke 
Neath ashes deep, beyond all hope. 



THE "BODy. 

There are so many things I have to do. 
That cause me so much pain, 
And what is worse, I have them 
To do, over and over again. 

45 



UHE MIJVT). 

True, it is you have your sorrow, 
But I am here to help you borrow 
Life, and love, and strength, 
Nothing more can you wish — at length. 

IsHE SO\/L. 

And when both of you are tired 
Out, beyond all measure, 
You can fall back on me, 
I am your greatest treasure. 

For the soul and mind can triumph 
No matter what the body has to do, 
For though the last is mortgaged 
The first belongs to you. 



A H\/ J^'D'RR'D VE^A'RS F'ROM f^OW. 

One hundred years from now 
It were useless to deny. 
There will be players at the game. 
Staking low, and high, 
Turning into the grinding hopper, 
Strictly within the rules, 
Fools, who would be geniuses, 
Geniuses who would be fools. 

46 



It were useless to deny this all, 
This much can we ominate, 
There will be thraldom for the many. 
Just as is the present fate 
Of the greater number, in the 
World's tidegate — w^ho sing their 
Song of lamentation, as they 
Near the bar, for failing as they 
Moved along, to reach a state of par. 
There will be brains then, as now. 
Some in love with ignorance, others 
Who know how. Some full dense 
And quite opaque, some both 
Swift, and keen, with bedraggled 
Olla podrida, sandwiched in 
Between, and the central body of 
This orbit will be in the same 
Old pew — oligarchy they call it, 
Government by the few. 

It were useless to deny this all, 
And foolish to discuss, 
For there will be the common pawns, 
And those who make a fuss. 
Those who will cry peccavi 
When Nemesis has the pelf. 
Others, who will paraphrase. 
For a petty bonus, denying the 
Existence of "lex talionis,' 

As they take a pinch of salt 
To rub it on the brain, 

47 



Of the man whom grief has mastered, 
And to watch his pain, 
Singing the while a madrigal, telling 
Of other days, whilst he cries 
The foolishness of the others ways. 

Oh ! 'twere useless to deny 

This, or to well omit, the per- 

Petual calendar of the world's 

Misfit. The small mind will 

Then, as now, torture the great soul, 

Calling that its victory, and its only goal. 

Ambitious game will not want for players. 

And triumph 

Will be for the heavy stayers. 

Then, there will be those who can 

Philosophize, while blinding 

Justice's eyes, and those who always 

Manage to sit first at 

The prow, for potency, somehow 

Will discover how. 

Then, there will be leavening the whole, 
Those who believe in the 

mighty "seership of the soul." 
Oh ! the human brotherhood will 
Be much as it is now. Slaves 
There are by nature, freemen 
Who will not bow. Those who 
Can be lumped in classes, and 
Those who are unique, 

48 



Those too scared to shake their heads, 
And those who bravely speak. 
And no amount of progress blooming 
Through the years, can twist the 
Human fabric so's to abolish 
Tears. And no matter what 
Inventions monopolize our 
Dream, death, the mighty is 
Conquerer, radiant his brow, unless th( 
Disease of social horrors is different 
Then, from now. 



C£^ ^HIJVGS'. 



If you are not cool and 
Bold of head, with strength 
To spare, sound on your feet. 
Avoid the very common snare, 
Of going in too deep. 



When you reach the limit 

Of your power, to comprehend, 

49 
-4 



The soul of another, whose 
Greatness may offend, 
And to you, it is without meaning, 
Dead — be not surprised at it. 
But at yourself, for you may miss 
What to it, is supremest bliss. 

There never was a greater paradox, 

Nor seeming more unreal, 

Than an abiding faith. 

In a great ideal. 

For it beats against all wrongs, 

And must be confessed 

Is the only alkahest, 

Besides great love, that feeds 

On everything, devouring enmity. 

Hate, and malice, for when 

They seize their swords to cleave love 

In two, loves greatness changes their 

View, and she only greater grows 

When they consent to wield their pigmy blows. 

4- 
You, yourself, have to say 
If the same old tyrants bind 
Upon your soul, their many chains, 
It makes no difference what their names. 
You have nothing to fear, unless you fear, 
They are, as you, only part, 
Of the common heart. 



5- 
It is not what we see, 
But what we understand ; 
It is not what we say, of nature, 
But whether we hold her hand. 
And smile at her, and make confession, 
Of her multiform expression. 

6. 

No one in this world has any 

Special right, all belongs to each 

To use, it depends if you have the sight, 

You have but to choose. 

You, alone, are master of your mind 

There are, for it, no chains 

Strong enough to bind. 

7- 
It is foolish to love, unless 
You also believe, 
It is foolish to do either 
Unless you have firmness, 
To hold love, and faith, together, 
In every kind of human weather. 



It is well to be of good birth. 

It is better to have good worth. 

Breeding is better than the first 

For life without it is hunger and thirst. 

51 



9- 

When you meet diplomacy, 
That often stands for lies, 
In a sphinx-like, placid face, 
Tranquil as the summer skies. 
You are justified in bowing. 
Bending — seeming, 
Frankness were amiss 
In this kind of scheming. 

10. 

If you have a bitter cup 
Held to your lip, and cannot 
Toss, drink it, and 

never mind. 
If you have had your throw at life 
A.nd lost, 

never mind. 

If you have the kind of clouds 
That come to you, again and again. 
And indicate both wind, and rain, 
never mind. 



52 



711 VELA 



To play upon our souls, 

Strike every chord, and every passion feed ; 

To touch our hearts so deep 

They almost bleed ; 

To carry us to heights so near the sun, 

Then whisper secrets 'till we are won ; 

To make a note so sweet, so full of tender love, 

Then dig a pit so deep there is no above ; 

To make us wince and almost cry aloud, 

Then fire our pride 'till heads go up unbowed. 

To make us believe that all is wrath and tears, 

'Till we hang our heads with grief. 

And shake, with foolish fears. 

To make us feel so brave, no clutch of circumstance 

Would put us in the shade, we watch for any chance 

To cast ruin, and wreck, about us, as we ride along. 

For we feel so fine, so brave, so very strong. 

You take us to some delicious moonlit vale, 

We can almost hear the sobbing nightingale ; 

You ride with us across some savage wild, 

Then chirp, and coo, to us, like any lisping child. 

All this you do — and more — 

With that music you adore, Rivela. 

Your faithful heart 



So full of bliss, and love, for your noble art, 

That she unveileth charms, alone, for thee. 

And thou are drunk with ecstasy. 

Well do I approve thy choice 

For no tempting", subtle voice, 

lago-like, can come between 

Such a lover and his Oueen. 



e"o M. V. T. 

"Do Not Foeget Mk." 

Forget you? No. Forget you never. 

E'en tho' Time and God's will do sever 

Our lives, and apart they lie. 

Lady of the gracious heart 

I know full well the lofty part 

You play in life. 

Fair as woman, great as mother, great as wife. 

And he who knows so much 

Must know this. 

For such a woman is to a man 

An eternal well of bliss. 

Forget you? I forgive you the thought 

For were you not tender with the havoc 

My soul had wrought? 



51 



THB V ALLEV or "R E G Tt. E T . 



In the deeps of my heart, 
Growing for years, 
I found a small mountain 
And a torrent of tears. 

Oh ! the mountain it grew 
From a mere speck of love. 
And the torrent it flowed. 
From the mountain above. 

And, one loomed so high 
That it crowded my heart, 
And one flowed so wide 
That it tore it in part. 

Then where the tears 
Had flown from above 
Melting the mountain 
The mountain of love, 

There 'rose a wide valley 
They call it regret, 
'Tis peopled with sorrows, 
And bleeding yet. 



55 



StTSIE. 

She had great wide eyes, 

Lips both firm and true, 

And were, Hke nostril, flaming red 

And the eyes were blue. 

The perfect beauty of her head 

Was crowned with locks of Titian red, 

The eyes looked as if they could cradle tears, 

Yet were not at home to foolish fears. 

I love to think of this woman's face, 
Every line left its mark of grace 
And the trait that made the best impression 
Was the magic beauty of her expression. 

For candor and benevolence spoke 
Loud, and with fervent note. 
Showing her virtue to be of gentler kind 
Yet her brow told a story of heroic mind. 

She was all this — and more — 

Versed in every sort of lore, 

Yet 'twas not these that I was after 

For she was also queen of love and laughter. 



56 



OJ^ UHB HEATH OF A CHILD, 



Sailing, slowly, across the skies 

Steals a pair of baby eyes, 

A kindly message brimming in their sadness ; 

Tenderly I watch for thee, and hearken, 

And am only gone before, 

To open wide the door, 

In the holy hush, beyond the soft blue cloud. 

When the angel swept by you, as he passed 

To bear me away, on his wing, so strong and fast. 

He forgot the happy hours I slumbered on your breast ; 

Dream, then, of me, still, as fondly clinging. 

Like the climbing ivy swinging, 

Around the ruined shrine of your broken nest. 

Try to think that I am sleeping. 

There's no pain around me creeping, 

That, my curls fall o'er my face, 

And, of death there is no trace. 

And, the shadow of the tomb, so lone and wild, 

Darkens not the beauty of vour only child. 



57 



Fate Unknown. 

Out in the storm, I know not where, 

Lad of starry eyes, brown and true, 

Early blossom of my tender care, 

I look in vain thy face to meet 

In the hurrying throngs of every city's street. 

When thou wert carried 

Captive to another part, 

By one whose words of love and praise 

Welled from a traitor's heart 

The only link, the only thread, 

Left me were the golden curls 

From thy baby head. 

Alive they are, and shining bright, 

Spanning the piteous gulf twixt me and night. 

And between the mocking days, and 

Nights, and years, 

Are the lonely hours, and the flowing tears, 

Since a cruel fate 

Tied the cords that bound me to the stake. 

If thou art alive, and happy, say so — boy 

If with a braver heart 

Than he, who robed in yellow, 



Played the Judas part, 

Sent thee wandering, 

Left me alone, 

To bear the burden of a ruined home. 

But, if thou art sleeping-, 

Imprisoned, in thy earthly bed. 

Thy pure soul must hover 

Sometimes, around my head. 

For well I know, its pinions 

Rising from thy martyred sod 

Shall gladly be unfettered by a pitying God. 



WJVKJVO WJV. 

Another maiden sleeps the long 

last sleep, 
Another mother's eyes are taught the 

way to weep, 
A life lies shattered, with broken 

string, 
Silent, forever, yet of it 1 

sing. 
A dream fondly cherished, she who lies 

so still. 
She whose fate it was, nothing to 

fulfill; 

59 



Gifted and beautiful, though doomed to 

die so soon, 
Her young Hfe never had its 

afternoon. 
For the heart she thought was all 

her own^ 
Hardened, and turned itself to 

stone. 

Nothing is written against her on 

her brow. 
Except the common message, 

she didn't know how. 
For she had been taught, she was 

so very sure, 
That, like her mother, everything 

was pure. 
She had yet to learn that vice, to 

accomplish things, 
Very often borrows virtue's 

wings. 
For when vice deals with the ignorant 

and young. 
It often pays tribute to the higher 

one. 
For in this world you can swim 

its sea, 
Not by what you are, but what 

you seem to be. 

For you will be labeled, at last, 
by what you've got, 

60 



Not passed up to the front, by what 

you've soug^ht. 
And though this lass, lying dead, upon 

the marble stone. 
Friendless and forsaken, in the morgue 

alone^ 
Was good and brave, she had her 

heart consumed, 
And, by treachery, was foully 

doomed. 
To sink into her dreamless 

restj 
And lie unknown, upon the city's 

breast. 

Her story, unwinding from the 

cruel chain, 
Proclaiming to the world her 

bitterness and pain . 
For she had, of course, met the 

boy, 
Who, perhaps, had not been taught 

at school 
That blunders were punished, this 

the fatal rule. 

For all can not make the 

master-stroke, 
The world is not peopled by 

such folk. 
For if every mind were a 

master-one 



The world would take a turn at 
moving 'round the sun, 

The moon refuse to longer shed 
hei light, 

Declining to be subordinate 
satellite. 

And every little twinkling star 

would rather bear, by far, 
An illuminated stamp, 

proclaiming 
It to be the only silver lamp, 

hanging up on high. 
In the darkened sky; 

this 

Was all ner life, yet she once 

had a joyous laugh. 
Like a ringing silvery chime, 

but it went, with her heart, 
Floating on the river Time, 

to follow 
Dead days, and things, 

tangling up 
Its quivering strings, 

drowning 
All its hopes, and fears, 

in 

The rushing river's tears, 
for 

62 



Her hero-king was perjured, 

loved 
Wedded, and then lost, 

she 
Basely on the cold world tossed, 

for this 
Her mother dreamed her dream, 

this the theme. 
To love — and then to lose, 

how could she refuse 
For here below, God meant 

it so. 

Brave woman-heart, true child 

of light, 
Couched on cold stone, dead in 

the night, 
Deserted, sorrow-marked at 

the endj 
Grim the lesson to all of us 

you send, 
I, who know every chapter of 

your broken life. 
And tell your story 

little girl-wife. 
Have nothmg but your name 

to save, 
That goes unwritten with you 

to your grave. 



63 



TB'RSOLVE, -PBJ^SX/M. 

GOLUBTCHIK. 

The laws that make for unity 

Find answer in you. 

Thus harmony speaks true. 

To so Uve by this, that Hfe 

Is not denied, 

Aiding the wounded to lis^^ 

By your side. 

Registered in the ranks of science, 

It is manifest 

You wear her sign. 

Boldly on your breast. 

Every human in this land, 

Should be perfect, as the grain 

Of sand, and worth 

Its proper place, in the general law. 

Which the King has made. 
This your trade. 
Loving order as you do, 
You wish it for all the rest, 
Be he master, or be he slave, 
Emperor, or knave. 
The laws of order, 
Are everywhere the same, 

64 



To you, it makes no difference where 

Lies the blame. 

One like you so sincere, 

Must conquer in the fight, for your 

Power is the potent one of right. 

Glad am I to enroll you in 

My list of Saints, 

Find a heart so deep, 

And good, that I like 

To call a man, and bend before it. 

Let me take your hand. 



THE, T'RI^E, I 'D'REW. 

If when I gave myself to you 

I had but known the value of the gift, 

And youth's illusive light had not held me in its rift , 

I would not be as I am today. 

Now that I know, I am strangled by the thought 

That I was attracted by the phosphorescence of a corpse 

in rot, 
Heaving in the after-roll of sin, 
Dangerous alike to me, and kin. 
Thrown back to seek for life, on my innocence and 

beauty, 
I, the dupe of social law, and duty. 

65 
—5 



One there is who knows why this is so, 

I am brave enough to ask Him when I go. 

For if from my heart you have drawn the bitter tear 

My soul is too strong for you, and fear. 

And, you well know, I have made you feel 

That my intellect has an edge of steel. 

And, I have to thank you for ridding me of confusion 

Since you taught me that truth and love and justice 

were but delusion. 
I still am young, full of power, and life, 
Glad now to live without these cheats as wife. 
Strong in body, with courage high 
Skill well-developed, in my heart no sigh. 
For you only stirred, what you could not keep. 
There were sweeter depths below, in the furthest deep; 

Clear, strong, soft and warm. 
Murmuring with a newer charm. 
Changed by treachery's raging fire 
Into music, for my lyre. 



HE'R S-TOTiy. 

For love I gave you all. 
My battles were in vain, 
Against your tempting face 
There was my maiden grace, 
Of soul, on earth, whereon 

66 



Was marked my woman's worth. 

The tender pressure 

Of your orentle hand, 

Your warm Hp's kiss, 

1 could not stand ; 

For that meant Ufe and love, 

Dear me, that meant life and love! 

Then you know I had no choice, 

When you cast the spell of your magic voice 

Around my soul, you strangled it. 

My head went 'round, crazed for thee, 

And thy sweet smile so haunted me. 

Thou wouldst not see, the mighty pain, 

I fought once more, and once again. 

The love of thee, the love of me. 

Yet could not see its mockery. 

This gift that came from God above. 
His one great treasure, my woman's love, 
Ah me, Ah me, his one great 
Treasure, my woman's love ! 
This is all my story, 
I loved you, and I lost. 
For you, there is the glory, 
For me, the final cost. 

I came, with love, to greet you, 
I go, without renown, 
I give you back man's sceptre. 
Hand me the martyr's crown. 
Mute are now my lips, 

67 



Burning, hence, my tears. 
Throbbing my poor brow, 
Haunting all my fears; 

And wild and deep. 

Is my soul's sob. 

Alas, I but weep, 

And leave thee to God ! 

For I lost my two great battles. 

The story I'll not prolong, 

I feel myself too feeble, 

To wage the war with wrong. 

For, when you came to me. 

My maiden heart awaking, 

It answered, when you asked it to obey, 

But tonight, I start my soul across 

The silent waters. 

Its too dark, to bear the light of day. 



HJS: JTTO'Ry. 

When, in the night I tumble 

On my pillow ; when all 

Around is dark, and it were vain, 

To see a ray of light through all the darkness, 

All that I remember, is her woman's pain. 



For every night I see a vision, of the 
Girl, who believed in me with all a 
Woman's faith, and, lying sleepless 
I have the heavy burden of 
Her haunting woman's wraith. 

And, when all around, is dead 

And silent, I dream, and see, and 

Dream it o'er again, Alas I also rue ! 

Ah, would I could tear from out their sockets 

These wondrous eyes of mine, she thought so true. 

And, all around I see the streaming, 
By the woman-voice I know 'tis she, 
Again now I must be dreaming. 
For instead of one 
There are surely three. 

And, they stand there and laugh at me 
In triumph, with cheeks so deathly 
Cold and pale, and wave at me 
Those dreadful banners, with only 
One defect, for across each, and every 
Streaming ribbon, gleams in lurid colors. 

You DID NOT ME PROTECT. 



69 



MBJWS COJVS'CIA -RECTI. 

God's Judgment. 

A mind conscious of right 

owes nothing. 
This its integrity. 

From this height of purity 
I give guaranty, 
And full surety. 



^HK MIJr\/JVT>E'RSrT007> 

The soul is like a church, with 

many pews. 
Or a road, with branching avenues. 
And, 'tis too much to expect 

the light 
In each and all of them to burn 
Throughout the night, so's to illumine 

every pathway, 

70 



Of all that's human ; and, if you miss 
The happiness of being fully understood, 

and it is your fate 
To have left at every gate, all the things 
The world thinks, and says, of you, 

though only half 
Or none, of it is true ; why should you bother 
About these shapes of thought. 
Pointed into poisoned arrows 
And shot at you, unsought. 

If, you are only sure you care 

not to allure 
Them to the deeper wells, where 
Your soul in shadow dwells, 

for they might disturb. 
Perhaps would shun, the beauties 
They would find there, one by one ; 
And, since they often do not know 

themselves, 
It were too much to expect them to 
Discern, much less admit, or learn from you. 
You need not worry, or think yourself alone, 
Nor fret, nor cry aloud, for indeed, 

you are in distinguished 
Company, if not a c^owd. And for 
The world do not break your heart, 

if you do not please her. 
For there was Christ, Napoleon, 
Julius Caesar, and many more, 

called madmen, or worse. 
In whispers, behind the door. 

71 



Be not surprised if society probes 

every wound, 
That happens to be bleedingf, 
Since it guards its mighty pillars 

from your blood, 
And listens to no pleading, 
As it sits on high. 

And, if your soul sometimes seeks 
The coolness, in a shady wood, 

to brace 
Itself, in solitude, for the pain of 
Not being understood, and you 

are tempted to cease 
Advancing, along the highway, 
And cut across into the "primrose path," 

to escape 
The sting, and jealous wrath, 
The biting irony, the cutting wit, 

that comes 
In twos, and fours, and threes. 
Like the stings of ten thousand bees, 

when you 
Disturb them, as they make their mell, 
At such a time you must expect 

no mellifluous sonnet, 
Still, your life is worth the value 
You choose to put upon it. 

And, though the great world is sometimes 

rather meeching. 
And not always sound, as well, in its teaching, 
You must neither scorn, nor let it alone, 



For it is one great megastome. 
So, if you are tired of the merry 
Dance which the wicked lead the weak, 

and care 
Not to dwell among the legion 
Who walk in sorrows region, 

shift your sails, 
Temper your course, and sail taut 
To the wind, remembering you do not 

have to go 
Always north and south, for when 
Badly pressed, you can tack, 

sailing, also, east and west. 
So, hie your ship, throwing smile 
And kiss, to the flotsam of the day, 

joining in 
A requiem, for the jetsam by the way. 
Thrown from sinking craft on 

life's highway. 



73 



My CO\/ J^T'RV- 

WeITTKX Dt7RIXG OTJE WaU WITH SPAIN. 

Whilst mine eye roves backward to thy cradle 

And sees beside thy birth the awful wrong 

That rocked thy slumbers, sung by many able 

Sons of thine, in glorious song; 

There are thy wars grown red 

Since then, on thy tumultuous head, 

Proving in battle, Columbia, thou art strong! 

Brave sons, America, hath thou, 

Bom from the sufferings 

Lined upon thy brow; 

And, above thy war-like head, 

Waves thy banner with its red 

Stripe dangling near the white, 

Tearing out, with hearts both firm and true 

Every foe who rushed against its blue. 

And, proudly from out these many wars 
Shines with mighty lustre all thy stars, 
Straight caught as from the dome above 
Answering, in thundering tones, thy God of love. 
Thus laboring above some troublous hours 
Thy meadows green piled high with blood, 
And across thy rivers towered 
In rushing streams its hardihood. 
Now the buxom form, which nature dowered 

74 



On thee, from out thy mother's womb, 
Lies panting, sore with the cold breath 
Blown across thy bosom by the spectre, death. 

In icy shudderings, thou dost tremble yet, 
For across thy heart thy daughter's tears 
Benumb its beat, for sons still wept. 
Columbia! Great mother! 
Hard, but luscious type, 
Perfect smiles, brimming tears, 
Swiftly changing through the years ! 

Ample bosom for thy nibbling child, 

Browsing son upon thy breast, 

That from out thy quickening side 

Springs full girth, with love confessed. 

In lusty notes, with no shallow ring, 

Grudging not his sword to fling 

In thy defense ! 

But, mother, thou hast measured out thy pain, 

Since thy brave eyes must look upon thy slain, 

Feeling in thy mighty knell 

The wounds by which such children fell. 

Yet shining far across the sea. 

Thy great eyes set on liberty, 

Speak in their gaze towards other worlds 

And to all tnen that light unfurls ! 

Telling to all future morrows 

The story of thy dead children's sorrows. 

As from that day in early spring 

With swelling bud basking in the air 

And birds with gushing mates were on the wing 

75 



Poised towards skies so blue and fair; 

Thou smiled around thee, glancing toward the sun, 

Grateful to One above thee, for such bliss, 

That o'er thy valley and thy mountain hung 

So full of life, thy lips all pursed to kiss ; 

Poured out in glorious breath and sweet. 

Thy pent-up love for thy children offered up, 

When, there was dashed against thy unsuspecting teeth 

Insulting death, from out a poisoned cup. 

Thy wide eyes flashed ! and turning 'round in rage, 
Thou flung thy long arm on thy sword. 
In passionate fury- the avengeress, to assuage. 
And rushed upon this Spanish horde. 
So mother ! like your woman strong, 
Nutured as her brother for lo ! how long ! 
Thou canst smile, also canst thou weep 
And turn, when insulted, like a savage born. 

Sending out beyond thy western shore 

A nation once so haughty to the fighting Moor, 

And hung him withering in the chilling breeze 

Without hope, except under "Fleur-de-lis." 

Now, Columbia, spurning all the hates that blow 

Around thy conquering head, once tempest-tossed. 

Lift clear thy brave gleams, and throw. 

Thy light beyond and over all the deeply-crossed. 

And from the zenith of thy towering height, 
Beckon still the suffering of the earth's dark night 
Pluck from their souls the "canker worm" 
Till loving thee they in passion burn. 

76 



"He is not worthy of the honey-comb 

That shuns the hive because the bees have stung," 

Here the many peoples not loved at home 

Should melt themselves, and o'er thy forests roam, 

Believing in Columbia, by whose cool ponds 

Topple brown and full of height her own fair fronds. 

Columbia, my Queen ! cradled out of sorrow, 

Teach the Nations how to dwell in love 

Securing to thyself the boon, which all of them may 

borrow 
The olive branch held out by the dove. 



C//JE LI'BK'RTI J^B. 

You are one who likes to hear the widow sigh, 

And smile your best to see the orphan cry; 

And if you can stain the virgin's lofty soul 

You have conquered life, and reached your only goal. 

Also, you are on the mocker's staff, 

When the mourner weeps, you only laugh. 

When the pilgrim wanders dull and lonely by 

You are he too ashamed to sigh. 

The songs of woe you consider sweet, 

And joys best mood put underneath your feet. 

For you are that hopeless thing 

The libertine, with an easy fling, 

77 



TO My A'RCH-E/fEMy. 

Self-Appointkd 

Between the scale of genius, and of fool 

Is a being incomplete, 

Called mediocrity, 

But, measuring his meanness 

By the malevolence he breeds, 

He's the genuine lord of aristocracy. 

Bold hunter he, gathering the 

Fruits of easy victory, 

Born in his mind, with anxious pain, 

By this man spawned of Cain, 

Should I throw my hand to him 

Across the chasm. 

Fellow made of mud, not protoplasm, 

I should read his labels wide 

Pasted thick upon his hide. 

O, this fellow he is trembling. 
For his power is on the wane. 
And they hail him not as fellow. 
Since he walks not in their train; 
For his pot of boiling malice 
Keeps him stirring, day and night, 
This greedy child of fortune 
Compelling me to fight ; 

78 



As he thinks, when he drinks, 
The concoction that he brews, 
But for all his boiling 
It is always badly spoiling; 

I would have you know 

Enemy most arch, 

Self-appointed, self-annointed 

That you are 

That I can not disgrace my country 

By fighting with a fly. 

My country does not do it, nor do I. 

For, let me see, what do we know of the fly 

But, that would spoil my page, let's pass it by. 

When I fight, 'tis with a man 

And he must be my equal, match that if you can 

So according to my code duello 

Not at your service. — Isabella. 



UHE "ROM AJ^ CE. OF A 'ROSE 

ExoEPTis Factis. 

Once upon a lazy summer day 
As the hours went idly by. 
In a garden, full of flowers, 
And gorgeous with the butterfly; 
Here and there a singing bird, 
And a droning bee or two, 

79 



Dancing in the waves of light, 
Sun-swept, after morning dew ; 
There bent a proud, and haughty head, 
Of deep red rose, near waters darkly blue, 
Gushing sweet from founts, and never weary, 
Of the lavish sprays, with which they shed 
Their waters on her, and quite cheery, 
As they laughed, and gurgled by, 
Stealing, as they passed, more color from the 

summer sky, 
And sparkles of sunburst floating down, 
Nestled deep, within the ruby crown. 
Of this rose of fair renown ; 

This deep-red rose, queen of them all, 
Growing close to the garden wall, 
Touching, gently, with her drooping head, 
The emerald moss, that gently spread 
Over the rocks, its robes of green. 
Kissing the violets, that grew between. 

As they nestle close, within her fold. 

Blushing to find themselves so bold. 

As softly they watch the tender tint 

Of the fragrant hyacinth. 

And play possum 

With nodding apple-blossom. 

While a butterfly brave fellow, 
Delicate white and yellow. 
Sips his fill of the roses' heart. 
Quarreling with all at the start 
And grows wroth at purple moth. 

80 



And behaves quite cruel, 

In the butterfly duel, 

Until conquered, by a big brown one, with pink 

Markings on its wing. 

Who flew upon the deep-red rose 

To have its fling. 

And rising from Summer mists 

As if flurried from too much sleeping, 

A crimson bird begins to sing, 

And to the rose goes weeping, 

Out its trills of liquid notes 

Starting all the warbling throats. 

Within the locust boughs. 

Caroling, with joy, their cries. 

As their voices rise, 

Over all the bloom. 

Of the Summer afternoon, 

That wafted sped 

To the rose so deep and red. 

Who exhales out her perfume. 

For them all. 

As they flutter, and surround her, 

Protesting to each other 

To be the favored lover, 

And to have crowned her 

With the glorious beauty, she now wore. 

At this, the crimson bird flew down, and tore, 

A deep red petal, and carried it in its bill 

To its waiting mate, beyond the hill. 

The others seeing him do this harm, 

81 
-6 



Decide the rose has no more charm, 

Which alarms her, 

Until a robin had his way, 

And said, lets hear what she has to say . 

Here the violet lifts its head. 

And the laughing waters read 

The jealousy of them all. 

Where were now the happy songs 

They once sang, of her beauty. 

Had the roses' wrongs 

Taught them not their duty? 

Had not her sweet scent 

All been spent, at their call? 
Fie upon you all ! 
Spake the ravished rose: 
It seems to me if I chose 
To treat you with contempt 
My time would be better spent. 
But you forget that memory is tender. 
And I grieve to find among my lovers 
no defender. 

But tho' you have robbed me of my scent. 
It seems to me my charms are not all spent. 
I am not stifif, for curved is my beauty, 
And my bit of tangled brown 
Gives me, it seems, unique renown. 
Lending me a rich efifect 
Nothing crude can one detect, 
And as you look at me from every side 
I am still the pet, the family pride. 



While nature did not my thorns omit 

They point well and do not dip, 

And my calyx is proportioned nicely 

Oblong, not too small, supports me quite precisely, 

And did so, in fact even when I was plain 

And it can't be said that I treat lesser roses with disdain. 

Even tho' I often see some withered leaves 

Among their perfect sheaves 

And shyly with a glance I often turn 

And spy a hole made by a worm ! 

I notice, too, they sometimes are so light 

Their stamens are finished up with mottled green. 

Mercy, it would shame me to be seen! 

Even tho' I know I am so bright 

And make many others look like night 

Why I do not know. 

Except that nature made me so. 

Here some young blossoms, opened wide their dewy 

eyes 
Smiling, innocently, in pleased surprise. 
You are all you say O, queen 
And yet what made your worth 

Was just your odor, not your beauty and your birth 
While letting it be stolen you have given bad example , 
But we have had fair warning ample. 

For a rose without a scent 
Is dreadful punishment. 
It would not even be so bad 
If you only had 

8.3 



A notion where 'tis gone, 

Such carelessness is wrong. 

Like the rose we too, are often tossed 

Poor blossom could not trace her odor — lost, 

And the intluence the example that we give, 

Is the only thing about us that will live, 

But they roll away, go beyond our ken, 

Our example, good and bad, has its mission then. 



UHB SOLITAI'RB. 

You will find the longer you live 

That the world does not like overmuch to give, 

In fact considers itself unawake 

Unless it knows better how to take. 

And perhaps 'twill be your fate to find 

Like old Homer, starved and blind 

That you have not a single worthy friend 

As you journey towards the end. 

Believe me when you go your loss 

Will not be felt, for like Christ, 

You are not eternal, on the cross ; 

Nor like he, of varied mood 

Who served Mohammedans their spiritual food. 

Who believed in contradiction and in strife 

84 



For he had the sword, and many a wife, 

The sword he used, but the wives sometimes were not 

allowed to sneeze, 
These, of course, were desperately hard to please. 

And were, no doubt, pushed hurriedly to the rear, 

When the prophet suggested they were queer. 

Which is done, too, in other countries, you will find 

When dependent wives develop too much mind. 

But in the Orient a woman is soon old. 

And when that happens, is not over-bold, 

Nor does she, wisely, develop any art, 

As she only has a section, if any, of her master's heart. 

And he always has his mind, they say, 

On others who are younger, whose ways are gay. 

Over there the suffrage question has not opened yet. 

And a woman simply breathes, who is no longer pet. 

Of course, in the Occident, women are in the fight, 

For the privilege of wider social right, 

Where now, and then, a crafty one driven to the wall, 

Seizes man's prerogatives, trousers and all. 

For the trodden unit, human, 
Is stepped upon hardest, when it's a woman. 
Many doomed to five on the memory of past joy, 
Or, be only slave kindly used as a precious toy. 
I find this a question to be handled with care, 
Those who understand it, unfortunately, are rare. 
For tho' I should talk currently, and be exact, 
'Twould be, almost, like discussing science abstract. 

85 



Which could be made, I'll admit, with variety. 

But there's danger of leading to satiety, 

For it would be as intricate as theorem mathematic, 

The result not nearly as emphatic; 

Nor as beautiful as a fine poem, or essay, 

For the question does not run that way. 

For persons differ in their choice of bliss, 

There is no exception, then, in this. 

For often the man who over women rave, 

Is the first to demand they shall be slave. 

'Tis a question associated in the mind like rural scenes. 

Which we know are symphonies in many greens, 

For often we think to green we're true. 

Until we glance at the sky, serenly blue. 

And when we think to be in love with innocence white 

We suddenly admit she's nice, but trite. 

And the ignoble reason for our change of tack. 

Is that we have met a fairy who is black. 

For there's nothing in the changing human-sea 

Half as rare as consistent devotee. 

Often there lies in our path of duty 

Something we do not own, which is full of beauty, 

For virtue often starts the heart beating so loud and fast 

Producing feelings too violent to last. 

And, though, sublimity is grand, it is not calm, 
Beauty gives more pleasure, is a gentler balm, 
For the virtue that pleasure can despise, 
Is of the quality that stares death coldly in the eyes. 
Is too high, and grand, for every day, 

86 



Demanding special lovers, in a special way. 

Mediocrity alone is safe, 

All that carries else must chafe. 

For if one is capable, and vigorous, 
One must expect the censor rigorous. 
No matter what the talent in the mind 
For no kind of genius is ever blind. 
And if you have a touch of all you are 
Different from others, very far, 
And carry around so much commodity. 
You earn the name you get, the oddity. 

For no matter how others may admire. 

They dislike the extraordinary when 'tis not for hire. 

And hate to bow to personal might, 

Though secretly acknowledging its right. 

And may admit that talent has its special manger, 

But are more alive to its special danger, 

Which it has, one would be without wit, 

Who would not acknowledge it. 

But then everything is dangerous that has vitality, 
Yet this quality is the principal ingredient in morality. 
For no one can have virtues, great and high, 
Without special effort of the verb to try. 
And one can not play on heroic strings 
Until one has accomplished lesser things. 
And to be able to look on death with contempt 
Requires hardiness of life well-spent. 

Vitality it is^ that hurries in every rebel, 

'Tis this kind of huskiness, misplaced, found in the devil. 



Who will raise his ponderous hammers weighing many 

tons, 
Beside whose heavy labors, Vulcan's were easy ones. 
For the human is a being decidedly complex, 
There's many beside church and state he manages to vex. 
But then this is hardly the affair 
Of a woman who chooses to be a solitaire. 

Who sits aside, like Job, the man of Uz, 
Declining to take part in the general buzz. 
For I hardly think that any one denies 
That many people are only human flies. 
Not satisfied to sit upon, and tickle your Grecian nose 
They must investigate its reality, adding to your woes. 
And often, as they did to me, knock upon your head 
Denying it to be your own, as well as the auburn-red 
Locks that cover it, the length 

Adding to their envy, giving strength. 

Not only this, you almost faint 

When they challenge the color in your face as paint. 

And thump you, here and there. 

Seeking to discover some secret snare. 

And if you're not a masquerade. 

So effectually do you put them in the shade. 

With your classically-molded form 

You are always the centre of a storm. 

This is sad. I hate to steal 

From actual experience and reveal 

What a mighty grasp 

Meanness has on small minds. The task 

88 



Gives me no joy, is a subject hard to clothe, 
For 'tis one, I will admit; I loathe. 
And savors of lions skin expected to pass 
In glory, covering the braying ass. 

And no muse could soar 

Under the inspiration of such a roar. 

Who will blame that instead of such bore 

The solitaire should ponder over "quaint and forgotten 

lore" 
And count them not lonely hours 
When spent with brightest flowers 
Of God-given mind 
Whose greatness of soul is not left behind. 

And give some poet of high genius, full praise 

Since he conceives things differently from the common 

ways 
Of mind, like vampires, who not only seize 
Upon a bleeding wound — but make new ones with ease. 
Let me be not supposed to have no sympathy with the 

everyday and lowly, 
For they are my passion, their sighs are holy, 
No soul can lay claim to anything that's lofty 
Who sings not of these, in notes as softly. 

The common heart is a thing that calls aloud, 

Covered with a ragged shroud. 

'Tis not this, that comes within the rule 

Of my righteous ridicule; 

But rather the disgusting human top 

To whom I throw a merited sop; 

89 



For whom I have not the sHghtest pity 

It grieves me to say, I've met her in this city. 

It is not pleasant to have people stare violently at your 

eyes, 
Assailing them with some ancient lies. 
Because they are not stupid like the ox, and large 
They find them open to some other charge. 
And your mouth, like Cupid's bow, 
They will say is coarse, in expression low. 
Worse than this you will have a letter sent. 
Advising you, ambition to relent. 

And telling you to take a ride 

Upon some path of suicide. 

This is true, as true can be, 

Was done once and more than once to me. 

So it seems, that if you wish to live 

You must take more than you give. 

For it requires greater talent to omit 

For, like wickedness, things are easier to commit. 

Still without my lines upon the solitaire 

My book of verses would not be fair. 

For, I plead guilty to belonging to myself 

Here then, are some of the reasons why I put myself on 

the shelf, 
And deny invitations, with a persistence not polite, 
But there has been cause sufficient, quite. 
Whether the world or L is right or wrong, 
Is a question too broad for lyric song. 

90 



MO'RJW IJWC. 

There comes a flush of ether through 

The sky, 

There sings a lark 

Exultingly, on high, 

As, from its home it soars, for its accustomed fly. 

Across the meadows skim the warbHng thrush, 

Lying low. 

In flocks. 

And the bubbling clover stoops to blush. 

Alone, above the lush of waving grass 

The bobolink calls, 

His mate, 

And, flying- towards the sky, they pass. 

Also, the lilies, drinking deep of light. 

Hold up their torches. 

Waking from the night, 

Ready to dazzle, with their yellow light. 

There deepens from the shadows of the woodland vale, 
A purple violet, 
Tipped with dew, 

Hiding from fronds of green leaves pale. 
These things, true to love's delight, 
Waken from the slumber 
Of a summer night. 

And above, like a king, comes the sun, with new-made 
light. 

91 



I/>f THE, SE'RV IC E, OF GHE S: O \/ L 

Bitterness and malice 
Are the devil's chalice, 
Held to lips by enmity. 
Deny them, defy them. 
In the service of the soul. 

Make no terms with Mammon, 
Craven, futile, weak. 
Seeing that his weapons 
Are not tliose you seek. 

And though you die a Martyr 

With a tragic ending, 

Be alive, and do the things you believe. 

Judge not of tomorrow 

By mistaken yester-night. 

Come right now and press along, 

Building all your might. 

What is not your own you know, 
No one else can borrow, 
Liberty and love I trow. 
Lead none into sorrow. 

Stretch forth the hand of hope, 
Unafraid of it they call your Master, 
For the serfdom of the soul 
Is the one disaster. 

92 



Nature out of harmony 
Like a flow that has no ebb, 
Is the lowest one of us 
In the human webb. 

Like the gentle softness 
Of a sweet Aeolian harp 
Sing to the erring brother 
Of our common warp. 

Be not afraid, call no man Master, 
From early morn, to dewy eve, 
Liberty attach to your spinning weave, 
Build your day, with love renew, 
Hide from your view 
The thing called fear, 
Parent of the human tear. 

The thing, which when you make confession, 

Brings on your head the heel oppression. 

Yourself be master, 

Your life make real, 

The unit, free, in the common wheel. 

Spurn the world of many hates. 

That tie your soul to shaking gates, 

In tottering drifts, that lead nowhere. 

Be not afraid. 

Forget not the commoner whom 

Men call Christ, 

Whose rebellion nailed Him 

For life's span in deathless triumph 

93 



The independent man ! 

And the guilty ones who stood his 

Masters in the name of the state 

And of the law 

Are bound together, despised units, 

In the harmonious unfolding lent 

By God. 

The world has those 

It calls its masters. 

Hideous might in Centuries slaughters; 

Vampires, opening wounds, and 

Wounding, 

Destroying life, yet call it freedom. 

Gazing on the bound Prometheus 

Exulting in the iron shackles of 

Rock-bound serf, the tyrant Monarchs 

Whet their jaws for more devouring; 

Yes, masters of the world; 

Who come forth with blood-coined 
Weapons, 

Shining red with reeking millions. 
Many names these masters carry. 
On through years of horning children 
Who tremble when they new awaken 
Into a world they think is free. 
And into their various meshes. 
They toss young minds, like 
Quarreling fish, tumbling in a net, 
Who dance around, hopeless, 
Confused in frenzied tangle; 

94 



Missing things in nature's open book. 

The teeming and quiet forest, 

Pines fringing, banked against 

The mountain top. 

The pensive beauty of silvered 

Morning breaking, 

And bright color the birthright 

Of all of ye — since it is 

In sky, in flower, on bird, 

And sea. 

And free you are to hear 

The mighty throng of seeing singers, 

Who spin no webs too frail 

To hold our hearts for long; 

Who gather up our cry of pain, 

Wind it on their bobbins, and 

Throw to us again. 

Embroidered o'er with all our tears, 

And keenest pangs, without 

Meed, or parise, 

If only they our hopes can raise. 

In the service of the soul. 



95 



^ T'RAyE.'R ISO MBMO'RV. 

The chime strikes. I count the 

houfj 
And listen, 
To the 
Midnight bell, a tolling-; 

From a chamber of my brain, 

there 
Comes a 
Sudden flood, 
Of by-gone times, 
Hearkening to the silver chimes, a-rolling ; 

And, at intervals, as the sudden 

glow 
Steals softly, 
And I borrow; 
Just the faintest light from the 

Darkest night, overwhelming me, 

with 
Sorrow ; and 
I supplicate. 
For a bitter fate enthrals me, 

96 



And I tremble; it would do 

no good 
And 'twere 
Hardihood 
To dissemble ; for my prayer 

At last, has held me fast, 

and 
Memory 
Is cruel ; 
For I see the clover bloom, 

While the water gleams, 

and 
The meadows 
Green and growing; 
And the pattering rain falls again, 

And holds me ; while the sweetness 

forgets 
Me not. 
As the roses' 
Hearts fall apart, their petals 

On me showering; and I count 

the 
Hour, as 
Time dips 
Back, I shudder and lay cowering ; 

For the midnight bell knows as 
well 



97 
—7 



That memory 

Will have 

No quiet ; 

And my prayer to her, for 

Indifference, she mistook 

for 
Invitation, 
And, obediently 
Quite royally. 
She gives me this ovation. 



Love, and self, went out to walk one day. 
Self wondered what the walk would cost, 
If it would pay, and turned to love 
To see what she would say. 

Love said she hardly knew, but 
She would try, by casting a little 
Joy around her, on the sly, 
Then, returning, see it multiply. 

So they argued, and each went a 
Different road. Self, on pleasure 



Bent, lost everything he sought. 

Love returning with a monstrous load, 

Beaming with things her scattered joy had wrought. 

That is funny, said self to love, 
The wind your way must be blowing, 
No, said love to self, this is just the 
Harvest, of my early sowing. 

Go, said self to love, you must let me be, 

Buried in the stagnant waters of the deep Dead Sea. 

Ah, said love she was so kind 

I do not like to leave thee, self behind, 

Follow me, I shall go before, 

And show you how to open every door. 



THE, -DX/EL. 

"And the rain descended, and the flood came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that 
house; and it fell; and great was the fall of it."— Matt. VII. 27, 28, 

He was fair-haired, blue-eyed. 
Innocent-looking, cold and bold. 
Beloved of Mercury, not too young, not too old. 
She was very young, brown-eyed, auburn -haired and in- 
tense, 



He described her as a girl without much sense. 

Or, if she had any, she used it wrong, 

However, what he thought does not concern my song. 

Her nature glowed, and burned, 

In so many different moods, 

He said, she lived on the devil's foods. 

And she reigned within his breast as 

Wife, not mistress, it must be confessed, 

For if she had been both, she would then attain, 

The honor and the triumph, of woman's reign. 

And he full privileged to say 

Believe me, I have lived today. 

And also to boast, I have done my duty, 

For besides virtue, I am crowned with beauty, 

Noble, well-designed, charming and refined, 

And my body is worthy of my mind. 

But she was willful, often sad. 

He was a cool, sang-froid cad. 

She was a poem in herself. 

All he loved was sordid pelf. 

He was inscrutable, as a diplomat, 

He said she had no tact. 

And was given to reflect. 

He hated signs of intellect. 

She was not in vogue, 

He much preferred a rogue. 

Tho' he would not say so she had as much sense 

As if she had not been a beauty 

As such, she offended against the spirit of love 

100 



Which exacts no such duty. 

For he could live alone by the light within her eye, 
Feed on the red of her lips and in their glowing die . 
She thought she could measure herself with him, 
But sang instead the dies irae hymn. 

For his Judas kiss 

Cradled the serpent's hiss. 

After which, she could go in coldness to the tomb 

And leave behind her all the bloom 

For love had drank and soared away. 

He had met another maiden that very day 

Had held her soul within his kiss 

Her life, as well, she paid for bliss. 

For he was cold as ice, 

Love and passion long forgotten for more convenient 

vice, 
Showing in his constant grin 
That he was quite at home in sin. 
And he would exchange any future treasure 
For an hour or two of present pleasure. 
For vows, like laws, were not for him 
Had long ago grown pale and dim. 

Life had not been one radiant dream 

Since they had walked hand in hand by the old mill 

stream, 
And listened to the gentle chiming of the 
Swinging bell in th.e tiny chapel tower. 
Its tenderness long forgotten in the present hour. 
For he daily to Bacchus sacrificed 

101 



The festival prolonged beyond the ides of March, 
Liberal by habit, he hated narrow starch. 

The hardy virtue of rectitude 

Did not suit his imperial mood. 

He was too busy living to have time for thought, 

This the burden which his life had wrought. 

He frankly admitted, himself he did not vex, 

With questions outside the realm of hunger and of sex. 

Simple doctrine, very, not complex. 

His wife had a somewhat more difficult part. 
Was beside poet, a being of most ingenious art, 
Daedalian to describe her would not be cruel, 
So you see why they would clash in duel. 
He had a slight knowledge of many things 
But could not soar with her on spirit wings. 
And all he did was very thin. 
Sciolists are given to this special sin. 

While she could work hours at a stretch 
The most he could do was to sketch. 
'T would take me too long to give at length, 
The reasons for her unusual strength, 

'Twill do however to say 
She had been trained in a scientific way, 
Hard, cold, minutely exact. 
Disciplined like a soldier. This is fact. 
While the soil from which he sprang 
Was strewn with flowers and gay daffodils so yellow 
And he had too much money that he did not earn, the 
dear, dear fellow. 

102 



True, he was thought to know something of Homer, the 

inventive 
And of Virgil the classic. There had been incentive 
In the study of Seneca and Euripedes 
Supposed with Plato, to be antipedes 
Of ancient philosophy and poetry. 
Cato told him 'twas better to be husband good 
Than greatest Senator in the wood, 
So he knew some philosophic preaching 
If he gave no ear to Christian teaching. 

Which he did not, 

Tho' the lady gave it thought. 

This wife was unique, and something more 

Wish I knew exactly through what door 

The genius passed and knelt, before 

It grew in size, and full degree 

And worked its way so steadily 

With firmness of its own towards destiny. 

Leaping all .barriers, urged on by fire, 
To fix, and accomplish, its mad desire. 
Heated in a whirl of special bliss, 
As intoxicating as a lover's kiss. 

Noble, full, and fertile, a snare 

For homage, and for tenderness. 

Let me see, Caesar loved Brutus 

Yet Brutus gave the fatal blow, 

The bible puts it this way : "ye reap only what ye sow." 

No one's page stands blank forever, 

Wickedness dares much, ignorance is less clever, 

103 



But far more frail, 

Has much to learn, as she "adorns her tale." 

Wickedness understands the art of speaking, 

Yet nothing reveal. 

As well as that of silence. 

Yet nothing conceal. 

Wickedness dwells not, like poet, 

High above the strife, 

Working in clouds apart, 

On Olympic heights of art. 

Where he would rather adjust his glass, 
On things below that pass. 
And gaze down through clearer level, 
On those who work for God, and devil. 

Truth is always truth, few will take her part 
Fewer still, to clothe her well with art. 
For Truth to exploit 
One must be adroit. 

Yet sometimes such an ugly thing as fact 
May be turned into fiction, with tact. 
With inspiration and enough of youth 
One may romance even with the truth. 

And make it masquerade as the weaker one 

Shining only by reflected rays of some passing sun. 

Like the moon is said to do, 

If what they say is true. 

A master-mind can take the most 

Repulsive themes 

104 



And turn them, with its art, into 
Sweetest dreams. 

Which is only another way of saying 

The stronger mind commands the mentally blind, 

Whose sight is hazy 

Like nations gone crazy. 

For states sometimes are so busy 

With the passions of men 

Teaching them the way to behave, 

That they are like one who learns 

A lesson at some cherished grave, 

Valued only when the victim dies, 

Covered with cypress bough, and in patience lies 

Asleep. What would you do? 

Christian would not die a Jew. 
Nor Jew be Christian thinker, 
Moslem would be neither. 
Christian slave, or Jewish tinker. 
My duelist— I'll call him Paul- 
Had no sort of time 
For the muses nine. 
Hated worst of all, a poet 
Nor would he re-invite 
One who did indite 
Song, sonnet, or virelay, 

Would if he met him go some other way, 
For he hated badly to be stung, 
Would swim the river first. Once he flung 
Himself into the lake, 

103 



When some satire made him quake. 
O, this is true, you may believe, 
I'm not trying to weave 
A romance, between the hours 
Of morn and night. 

And crowd written pages of right and might, 

Because, with him there was a chance 

To ride the tide of circumstance. 

For he could buy anything under the sun 

Except the soul of his poet-wife, the stubborn one. 

She gave her heart, that was enough. 

Her soul was made of more rugged stuff. 

Would rather tempt an ugly sea, by far, 

Then lay, in shelter, inside the bar 

Close-wedded to his side. 

Free from danger of flood and tide. 

So, you see they viewed from different banks, 

He thought genius made for insult, she for thanks. 

Not believing in "Utopia" for he had "Acres" of his ovv^n, 

While his master-passion, vanity, was badly overgrown. 

It impelled him to dislike what he called her dreams 

Yet if dream she did — she could also see and her themes 

Would a benefaction be. 

She had then her griefs so had he, 

He amused himself, she was not free 

Misery held her honor for its fee. 

Their disputes waxed warm 

He drew his "sword" to harm, 

She had nothing better than her "pen", 

106 



With which to be avenged. But then 

A pen will sometimes unmake kings, 

As well as write fables of "waxen wings" 

For a pen can reach up, out, beyond, above, 

Linger caressingly o'er a tale of love, 

Tenderly indite a soulful prayer, 

Soothe with soft echoes, cankering care. 

For genius is not the thing to stammer 

When hit repeated blows by fortune's hammer, 

Even when such potency deals in slander, paid 

For, and peddled — shade by shade — 

To suit every degree of caste 

Such stuff does not stick — cannot last, 

For genius is used to scars, 

Gained in battles, of many wars, 

Sent by fate to test its worth, 

Against the pride of money, sometimes of birth. 

For nothing can consume 

This power — it only melts away, 

Admits no antagonist — made not of its clay. 

Opposes nothing vibrating along its way, 

For genius is so well-dowered 

She appears with innocence to be flowered. 

Even while working day and night at Vulcan's forge. 

Or climbing high mountains of icy gorge. 

This thing the lady's husband 
Described as lack of common sense, 
His way of resenting the offense 
Of gifts, he did not understand, 



For he was too small of mind to take her by the hand , 
For Genius is just common sense greatly magnified, 
Broadened by a mighty sweep o'er the human tide. 
So each wheeled around again coming face to face, 
Is a woman equal to a man in such a race ? 

And if she is gifted too, he depraved and wealthy 
Who is victor in the duel — the rich one or the healthy ? 
For they parted, he sits upon his money bags alone, 
Carrying around with him the fabled stone. 
He sailed away, leaving her behind. 

Poor in money, but rich in health, in beauty and in mind. 
And took with him as captive, a bond between the two, 
An innocent, curly-headed lad, eyes of brown not blue.. 



LOVE j^EE'DS: JVO "DBFB/fSE 

Love needs no defense, for love is all. 
Cast love from you, and 'tis then you fall. 
Be not ashamed to own it, men, 
For you are not a man 'till then. 
For great love is pure and whole, 
It guides aright, the struggling soul. 

There is no soul so great and strong 

To go, unsupported, through this world for long. 

108 



Love rests, like a sweet flower, against your cheek, 
Let no one tell you that to love is weak. 

Be not ashamed to love her, men. 

Go you, deluded, until then. 

For loving her, and by that to stand 

It will also follow that you will love your land 

The country you know best. 

The mother that nursed you on her breast. 

And, it will follow that when you love the partner of your 

life, 
Who bears to you the sacred name of wife. 
That your country, your God, and humanity you can 

not profane 
For God, and country, humanity and love are all the 

same. 

"Survival of the fittest," is not the thing to teach. 
For there is no survival then, all is out of reach. 
There is no "end" that would justify such "means" 
Preachers of such doctrines indulge in idle dreams. 

For Nemesis is the great unspoken law. 
That follows in the wake of unit, and of nation, 
There's another law that stands right in with them, 
Latin, talionis, — ^English, retaliation. 

"Survival of the fittest" — Nemesis — retaliation, 
When dissected, will spell the one word, hate, 
The curse of unit, and of nation. 
But love is a tree, where all of life may bloom, 

109 



Only those who believe and understand, will be kind, 

Then Nemesis will, perforce, go blind. 

For where there is love there will be desire, to give, 

And to give of what you have 

Is why you ought to live. 

Love, then, is the universal alkahest. 
For love will manifest itself in a desire for beauty, 
Love will live, undaunted, and blossom out in duty. 
Love will buoy you up, make of you a thing distinct, 
A character — the end — the means — the link 
Whereby you are a prophet. 



For every life is good to Him. 
He knows. He must, what drives to sin. 
Her woman-soul ijiay be moving below 
And be only crusted o'er with icy woe. 

Perhaps, if we were kind, the hidden spark 
Would brighten from the barnacles. 
Where love had missed the mark; 

And not for us to ask the wherefore, 
Why, and whence, since she has 
Loved the wrong one, without reason. 
Rhyme, or sense. 

110 



Perhaps, if we knew it all, 

We would not wonder at the fall. 

Her aim, maybe, once, was just as true 

As his, who leaves her now, the bitterness to rue. 

And, it maybe, her soul somewhere had a morning, 

Though "the true, the good, the beautiful" died a-bornini^. 

And, though, every hall she's trod upon 

Since her fatal storm. 

Bears to her, the old familiar shape, the cruciform. 

And, like Jesus, who asked for friends, 
The rarest things on earth, 
She has had thrown to her, like Him, 
Slaves, tired out with sin. 

It may be, in the battle of the human, 

There's a place on the firing line. 

For this wasted woman. 

For when one has wounds in mind, 

In soul, in heart, it is not 

Always easy to see the better part. 

And, mayhap, she will see God 
As He is, upon a brighter morrow. 
For death never has better Captains, 
Than sin, and blight, and sorrow. 



Ill 



If thou didst err, "there was no joy in error, 

Put pain and insult, and unrest, and terror." 

Coined from such depths 'twas thy deep heart that spoke, 

And from thy sufferings, such magic beauty 'woke. 

The matchless music of thy singing word, 

Still arovmd the world is heard, 

Its fiercely-blazing flame 

Has twined the fadeless laurel around thy name . 

Thou shouldst have smiled thy sweetest smile 

At the amusing race of kings; 

Thou shouldst not have revolted at some lesser things. 

Nor bothered with them in thy lyric song. 

Mistaken in thy sight, yet could not bow to wrong, 

No, Shelley, boy, thou hadst a twisted view, 

For there was then, as now, nothing new. 

Man is simple, soon run through. 

Strength is an offense, even when such strength 

Is bought with loss of joy — 

Shelley — how can they say atheist to such a boy — 

Whose love for the oppressed was so great, 

Whose own life was snarled so with fate. 

She, to whom you did such an awful wrong. 

May, ignorantly, have asked what use was thy song. 

112 



'Tis hard, I know, to live without sympathy, at our side, 
But this did not excuse the forsaking- of thy bride. 

"O weep for Adonais" I wish I could forget, 
'Twas the "snake and eagle met", 
Exquisite child, genius of all disaster 
Thy Hfe was frail, like thine own "Alastor," 
Noble, generous, original — and yet — 
Sweet lyric singer — I will forget. 
For boy thou didst pay the debt. 



JSI AXXfRE, I,y J\/ST LA\/GHIJ^G 
AT VJ* ^LL. 

Those who can feel for our suffering race, 
Those who can see the depths of its disgrace, 
Those who know the sinning of this life, 
Faltering at its meaning, 
Fainting at its strife ; 

Who see the frantic chasing of its idle fancies. 
The perplexing puzzle of its mystic out-of-reach, 
The seducing force in the calling on to pleasure, 
The failure of antagonistic sects as they try to teach; 
The mocking discord of each particular part, 
Thrown to the craving, crying human heart. 

113 
—8 



The terrible ardor of the human brain, 
Trying, by its own strength, to Hve, in vain, 
The suppHant beseeching of the human soul 
The despair of the animal, that he cannot reach the goal. 
The knowledge to the singer, as he sings his song 
That we are but the interest-bearing debt of some mighty 
wrong. 

That nature, after all, is but toying with us all. 
That all our dreams are but ju5t her means, 
Nature is just laughing at us all. 
Against all this we have no defense, 
Nature's cruel hunger, as she eats her way, 
Aiming first at this one, and then the other, 
For to nature's power we all will fall a prey, 
Nature is just laughing as she goes her wanton way. 



CLEOTA T'RA. 

What says the Nile so sweet? 

Charmian, send my newly-purchased slave, 

She of the persuasive feet. • 

Mix me a draught to drown my sorrows in 

And, from yonder rose let me sip, and win. 

Some honey. 

Ah, she comes that temple of love, my bayadere! 

Of languorous voice — soft and fair. 



Lilac, lily, lotus, all in one. 

And poppy, as intoxicating as my Egyptian sun. 

She turns my head, like the Nile, blood-red. 

Charmian, off with her jeweled slipper 

Just a peep, at her tiny feet, 

And the blue-embroidered tunic, too near her hair 

Remove, a gauze instead, throw on. 

Bring flame and perfume, near 

And the Cypress, sent from Rome. 

This stain upon my cheek wipe out. 

A wound — you say? 

Come, fan me — away, 

I dreamed last night. 

Octavia! Ugh! Octavia! 

Come, cover me with spices 

My heart, and brain, are on fire 

And Antony is in Rome ! 

There, his neck is torn in twain 

He will not come so near again 

And circle 'round and 'round, 

When I'm in pain. 

And mock me, when I call; 

Charmian, crush his throat. 

He frets and pines, 

He has sung his song, and sings it yet again, 

His quivering strain hurts my pain. 

His ecstasy I will not endure, 

Charmian, is there no cure? 

Let's watch the teeming fishes, go in and out the rushes. 
Yon declining sun can tell me not, Octavia, 

115 



The story of thy virtues, one by one; 

This skin of brown, and these narrow eyes 

Are they not rich, Hke my Egyptian skies? 

In me, are there not as many shades of beauty 

All brilHant, as the day? 

And my voice vibrant and rich ? 

Yet when he spoke 

My soul awoke. 

Have I a soul ? 

Double-sexed I ? 

Both man, and woman, 

Half-beast, half-human. 

What strange fate gave him to her, and not to me? 

Octavia, would the fishes of the sea 

Could devour, and swallow thee. 

For Antony was drunk of me. 

Charmian, could I but with him rove, 

Through some olive or ilex grove; 

Could by-gone times come back again 

Dim vista that now remain 

But, I am Egypt's Queen ! 

Drank I in, with yon salubrious air 

From woman, given as my nurse, 

The voluptuous of the East, 

My Egyptian curse. 

My father's favorite slave, Zaidee, 

Mark how Monarch bent nis knee ! 

Ah, Charmian, yawn I, and pant, and dream 

To lie again near yonder stream, 

Near him, my mate; 

See the shadows of night roll on 

Find sleep for him, and me, was gone; 

116 



When he doth gaze at me, turn I so nervously, 

That the thunders in the sk}^ before me fly! 

Could I but breathe him once. 

Then die ! 

Octavia, tiiy poor and petty Hfe 

As virtuous, as loyal wife, will cease. 

Nay, I will not shrink nor cower, 

Triumph and power 

Are mine. 

Women and men bend to me, 

Not I to them. 

She lives now, and I 

I only dream. 

Yet my dreaming is not worse 

Than her living, 

It would seem. 

Charmian, the rain falls, 

Hear it patter against the walls! 

Incline your head to Isis, and say, 

Monarchs do not need to pray. 

Leave I that to Jew, to dancing woman, 

To slave and you. 

For my power is founded upon myself. 

The lute take down. 

Strike one chord. 

Hang it up again, 

I want my lord. 

The ligament between me and him. 

Is not what pagan calls a sin. 

117 



Sorrow does seem to me so coy, 

Sorrow, they say, always follows joy. 

Octavia is just his wife 

I am his mistress, and his life! 

Wives, those auxiliaries of the state, 

Something less than human, 

Man prefers the beast in woman. 

That superior Roman thing, 

Take up yon lute, strike another string, 

Is more superior than her master. 

This the slave's disaster. 

For she has knowledge, 

She has skill. 

He is master, he has will. 

She has been taught, like all her race, 

Not to look him in the face. 

Lucky is yon fair Grizel 

For she does not know her hell, 

For across her light 

They have drawn the darkest night. 

Women may be taught, like men, 

Put down that lute, take it up again. 

How the twilight makes me pain, 

For my soul, have I a soul, is not at peace, 

TwiUght will the pain increase. 

This has been a brilliant day, 

Stretching, mellowing, away. 

Yon dancing-woman, with so much grace, 

118 



So much charm of form, and face, 
With such music in her feet, 
And such softness in her name. 
Does not have within her vein 
The horrible agony of my pain. 

No law was made for me 

Such things I disown, 

My intellect is king, 

I have beacons of my own. 

And, they tell me that in Rome! 

But hark ! yon bayadere must change her tone 

Her eyes, her feet, her voice, 

Too suggestive are. 

Hand me yon chrystal vase, 

Nay, nay, do not walk away, 

I shall be brief. Yon bayadere 

Is thief, 

And, like my Nile, she is too red. 

But we will not shower curses on her head. 

For she lives only by my power, 

I can have her strangled any hour, 

And thrown to the fishes. 

In among the rushes. 

All her passion, all her sorrow, all her joy, 

Are for me to toy. 

Enough. 

My glory as a Queen, 

For I am Egypt's Queen ! 

Ah, Charmian, my soul, my life, my all. 
My woman's great desire, 

119 



Reflects but the passion of my Egypt's fire, 

And quivering I lay, 

All woman, yes woman, but woman I say; 

Fiercer grows the splendor of the setting sun, 

Pouring over me, and over all. 

Melting as it dies, and stretching far away, 

Into darkness, into silence, after day; 

And night comes on, 

And Antony, Mark Antony is in Rome. 

Queen and woman are alone. 

Panting, dreaming, all my sleep is gone, 

There is no mate to greet, 

No flashing eye of love 

Gazing down at me ; 

Naught but dreaming of the past, 

Of nights that could not last. 

Come, slave, and wave 

Yon broad-leafed palm. 

And scatter over me the rippling gold 

Of the heart of yonder lotus. 

Suffering I lie, as the twilight breeze 

Wafts me, in memory, to Roman seas. 

Take down my hair, perfume with sandal- wood my feet, 

I would be cool, I would sleep. 

Turn on me your melancholy eye, 

For in his arms I can not lie. 

Let flame and music die. 

Open yon lattice. 

Let Egypt's silver moon creep, 

With silence, and night, and sleep. 

120 



UHB TICTX/'RB. 

To Teeejsa L. Contessa de S . Rome 

Here is the story of your uufortunate sister, told in verse. I liave never forffotten 
that morning in Pere-ia-Cliaise. The absolute ruin of a beautiful and gifted woman will 
always be one of the profoundly sad tilings of life, even though human judgment tells 
us no one was to blame but herself. There is no accounting for the peculiarities of the 
artistic temperament, which led a woman like Pauline into her terrible error, after re- 
fusing so many admirable men, so much better suited to her high raulc, genius and true 
womauliood. Had she not met tlie Frenchman, she would now be known as the great 
woman she was, instead of only a heart memory to her friends— failure and suicide 
to the Parisians, 

A long time ago 

Near the beauteous forest of Fontainebleu. 

There was born, near an abbey dark and low, 

A man-child, who had a pleasant way, 

He had temperament, let us say, 

And poverty, made emphatic — 

By the usual one room and an attic, 

And although a vine had been taught 

To twine around the window pane. 

Its luxuriance tried to conceal in vain, 

'Till shadowed by some pitying trees 

That harbored every careless breeze 

And sent it murmuring, to the cottage door, 

Still, this home was poorest of the poor, 

And had it not been for government heart 

This child would not have been saved to art. 

Still, as his temperament grew 

The folly that goes with it fairly flew, 

And led him into a curious marriage. 

With one who thought his aims inane. 

121 



Till, finally tiring of this imperious wife 

His art becoming crippled by constant strife, 

He nad her conveniently declared insane. 

In this way quieted the recriminations 

That prevented him from getting on, 

Whether he lived in Paris, at Rome, or in Dijon. 

So, when he thus her violence could hush. 

He again took up the artist's brush. 

And moved into a fine salon 

Where he soon felt quite at home. 

And met a fair aristocrat 

Of the finest type of Rome, 

In an apartment next his own , 

Drawn to Paris, with her reputation made. 

They exchanged the usual greetings of persons of a trade. 

He poured out his woes to her. 

How his wife as lunatic was confined. 

And found ner a sympathetic listener, 

One, too, who was refined. 

Now, a good painter, like a poet, is born. 

Though there are soi-disant 

Writers, of poor verse, 

A painter — who is feeble, is something worse. 

For the very pains with which he has 

Learned his technic, makes his 

Case the more pathetic, 

As it is often the medium 

Proving the want of the noetic, 

And shows him not a master craftsman 

But only a correct and clever draughtsman. 

122 



Our artist desiring, with aciitest pain, 

To dwell within the pantheon of fame, 

Accepted, with an easy conscience, 

The adoration of this woman, who 

Had nothing else to love, 

Though I can't refuse to say she had much to lose , 

However, between the two, we sometimes have to choose. 

Considering this man — while very pleasant, 

Was nothing but a simple peasant, 

With much desire, but little ability to produce. 

Which all agree, does not conduce 

To the making of a lasting name. 

No matter what the kind of fame 

We follow with avidity. 

To deny this, is to admit stupidity. 

Added to this, he was not naturally 

Of intelligence frank and open. 

Nor had he the gentleman's ways freely spoken. 

Which proclaim the man of culture, 

Thinking, in his youth, such things were to be despised, 

'Tis here, let me tell you, failure often lies. 

Even the critic, cold-blooded as is his penchant. 

Will admit this observation to be trenchant. 

Since all had mistaken a talent 

For producing sketches and could 

Not scent defects that dwelt within the man, 

It is not surprising that their zeal outran 

Their wisdom, and their wit. 

Not knowing him to be unfit. 

By his very nature, 'twould be his fate — 



To do nothing well — or great. 
And so he met this woman 
Whose age was thirty-five , 
Who came with all her wealth of beauty- 
Abundant, as 'twas rare, 
Darkly gleaming eyes, and raven hair, 
With lips, and nostril, flaming red, 
With tones of face high and fine, 
Confessing a nature more than sanguine. 
For the face itself has tone, and vibration, 

Infinite in variety, intensely warm, 

And the brilliance in the eye 

Diffuses its light, like the colors in the sky, 

That only the more intense and bluer grow 

As they near the horizon go. 

If I said her eyes were dark 

And like gleaming gem, 

I hope to be forgiven, if I say so again, 

For I can see their flashes 

Soften, and grow beautiful, under jealous lashes. 

Indeed her beauty was so unique, 

That I hate to speak 

Of the genius, that eclipsed it, 

For, she was not only painter. 

She was also poet. 

The best of each to see the light 

Glowing, perfect pre-Raphaelite. 

Of power most vital, 

And so to entitle 

Her to claim on versatility. 

124 



Escaping the feeble classic note, 

Also exempting from vulgar virility, 

Enabling her to triumph over dreamer, 

As well as to avoid shoals of the schemer, 

Each in part fatal to highest art. 

She came to him, and filled his life, 

Donating what he lacked 

In self, in aim, and wife. 

Nor did she have to be seductive, 

She was just the woman-power productive; 

Overflowing, and abundant, 

This she gave — as well as rank. 

And many a gold, and silver, franc. 

Against this array of gifts 

There was one thing that outran 

Her powers — he zvas man. 

So, one day, they decided on an allegory, 

Which was to be a happy, happy story 

Of the fruitful life of successful love, 

However, I'm not quite sure, 

My memory I will not tax. 

It may have been Andromache and the little Astyanax. 

But as the story grew 

In yellows, violets, and blue, 

With gloomy moonlight 

Casting back its horrid shadow. 

In coloring neither gay nor gray, 

Sober, warm, nor pure, 

Twas not a story of Andromache 

Nor one of love so sweet and sure; 

125 



But the gloomy moonlight 

Pointed through the trees 

At the figure of a murderer, 

Down upon his knees. 

And in the forelight 

There was a woman — dead — 

Who bore the face of the one he had wed, 

And it was sent 

To the Salon, 

There to hang, for Frenchman to fawn. 

And proclaim his name, 

Fitting to be known in the temple of fame. 

While the hand, and the genius. 

And the soul of the Roman maid 

Were the hand — the genius — 

And the soul that paid. 

For the man — unhappy wretch — 

Was one who could only sketch, 

And she who had made him secure 

Lavishing her nature to insure his life 

Discovered, too late, that he had 
Only sketched at her, and at his wife. 
Absorbing both, in body, soul and mind, 
Leaving empty sketches of both behind, 
To encase in a coffin for Pere-La-Chaise, 
Following both, even to the grave, 
For there they lie unknown, 
While over him is a stone. 
Signifying, by a star. 
His immortality. 

126 



Saying nothing" whatever 

Of his immorality. 

For, does not the picture 

That she made, 

With his name unerased, 

Hanging in the Louvre, 

Prove him to have been most chaste ? 



GHE :BATTLE-LO.yKJl^. 

'•For injuries are to be done In such maimer 
As to fear no revenge." — Machiavelli. 

(Respbctfullt dedicated to cektaiit people IX Minneapolis.) 

Look in my face. 

The Httle length between my brow and chin 

Measures a woman's story, 

And not her sin. 

Come, gentle enemy, and look upon that brow. 

But, pause an instant, to marvel how 

The place you spat upon, shows no spot ; 

Why, gentle enemy, it is forgot. 

Look in my eyes — but note, and understand — 

That while you do so — I hold your hand, 

For, in their depths, you still will find. 

Gentle enemy — "I love my kind." 

And, my mouth is not a ship, 

For war, or merchandise. 

The expression, traced on it. 

Will match the eyes. 

127 



Beneath the meditative calm, some would call repose, 

Read sensuous resolve, written on that nose. 

xA.nd on my cheek — the fugitive refrain, 

Spells voluptuous caprice — not woman's pain; 

Its phrasing you well may skip. 

But, mark the trembling of the reddened lip. 

Gentle enemy, on all these features 

Note what is written by God's creatures. 

Is it given the gifted of speech 

To tell the throng, when one suffers cruellest wrong 

That through the labyrinth of the years 

There is just the gift of woman's tears? 

Literal symbol of the fate 

Dealt her by the hand of hate. 

Or just to amuse. 

Between the two — one may choose. 

The writhing of a woman's heart 

Is a more diverting — more exciting part — 

Than the sweetness of her love, 

Whose fragrant paths, and sunny bower 

Is but a place of danger, for an idle hour. 

The mantling flush upon her handsome face 

Is better poisoned, with an anguished trace. 

The wistful pathos, in eyes of brown. 

Are more becoming under martyr's crown. 

A look of perfect trust 

Is unseemly, and unjust. 

Women, who deal with men 

Must take what men give. 

Against God's plan — I have no cry — 

He builded — He alone knows why. 

128 



I thought to prove that, like man, I could love myself, 

Ah me, how blind ! 

God builded. Was God kind? 

In every corner, in every crevice, of every woman's face, 

God's alchemic emblem, one may trace. 

In the thrilling- of every woman's voice, 

Hearken to the message of God's choice. 

He builds by beacons of His own. 

No use to turn our gaze up to the sky. 

The futility of the question, as we grope 

Our way along, 

Is answered by the disdainful hand of wrong. 

He it was who wrote — 

Man should hold woman by the throat. 

Audacity, and subterfuge^ He gave to our brother. 

These the weapons used against 

Maiden, wife, and mother. 

In a woman's face, when you read self-command, 

Know she lives in despotism, 

Written, year, by year. 

So self-contained — so far removed from mirth, 

That tear upon tear, removes the dross of earth. 

Nay, gentle enemy, do not stab again, 

This is not the crying of my woman's pain 

Pausing — I only stand disarmed — 

As a woman will — 

To confess — believe me men — I love you still. 

Can I forget — what we have been, what we are to one 

another, 
Can I bury out of sight the fact, 

129 
—9 



That I was maiden, wife and mother? 

But the sweetness of my love could not avail 

Me against you all. 

Chary as the world always is, of praise, 

Eager as it is, to show its might, 

To a heart, attuned to sadness, it will say — 

Let her be forgotten — she has lost the fight. 

The deliberate voicing of one brought to bay 

Is just the awful silence of a cold today. 

I salute the enemy, for the point he made. 

For such a climax — to persons of his trade — 

He owes not to any master-stroke 

In our fine battle drawn, 

For not to my eighth square 

Did he bring his pawn, and exchange it for my queen, 

For in the struggle for my life 

The play was not easy, it would seem. 

Since I made my moves alone. 

With mathematical precision, 

I do not raise my cap, to acknowledge his derision. 

Purchased by the attributes, of power. 

Circumstances, that grouped themselves around me. 

Were not produced by any fee, that bought you all. 

That I might fall. 

You played long — you played well — you played a dirt)' 

hand, 
I played alone, played better, and played clean. 
If the victory is one you call triumph. 
It is one / designate as mean. 
Therefore, I salute the enemy! 
Not in challenge, like the blundering fool. 



Nor exultingly, like some favored queen, 

But my cap goes otf to the dominating condition 

Governing me — and every purchased tool. 

Think you the thrust at my heart 

Was made but yester-night, 

And into your outstretched hand it bleeding fell ? 

Dost think the glowing blood-red stream 

Flowed from its walls, by any stab 

From any purchased hell? 

Nay, nay, gentle enemy, look in my face, 

I am that awful thing — a might-have-been. 

Come now and gaze on me 

But will the sight a satisfaction be? 

For I still hope, and believe, and love, 

Even after thee. 

Imperishable legacies of a passionate race, 

Flowing strong and full. 

Just look in my face. 

Nay, nay, gentle enemy, do not stab again, 

My length of life is not yours to pain. 

\ live to cast my blessing on you 

And to say that I forgive, 

Yet forgiveness is not surrender, 

Nor concession. 

Passionate blood is jealous, they say, not just. 

Misfortune should bear bitter fruit, 

Despair should cry, 

Haunting memory should brood, 

Not play — nor long to meet again, the open day. 

131 



Wisdom should sit calmly in a niche, 
Flowers be left to wither in a vase ; 
Declining suns should not brilliant be, 
But should pierce and crest a troubled sea 
With a mellow light. 

For twilight goes before a darkened night. 

If I a failure be, 

Successful ones, just gaze on me. 

For even tho' I've been a slave, 

They can not say I was not brave. 

Where men have failed — am I to preach 

And set myself up to teach? 

Nay — I only ask to sing a song or two, 

For those I love — before I'm through, 

Are skies n'er dark, but always blue? 

Do flowers bloom without their dew? 

Can hearts listen, and still beat true? 

If to fail is to sin, and to sin is to fail. 

Why the story is so ancient, it is stale. 

For every set of teachings, by every set and clan, 

Have fought out their many doctrines 

Around the nature of man. 

Socrates, at Athens, had the cup — 

Christ, after him, the cross — 

If Jesus — ^the special-missioned — 

Could fail like this 

Socrates — the teacher — die for truth 

Why every fiend — in every hell must hiss 

When knowing man, and simple maiden kiss. 



Leave us alone, all through the night, 

We do not fear. Speed thou, and take thy flight. 

Why should we plead of one so true, 

W^e give our sighs. They are thy due. 

Go to thy God, they say, who dwells above, 
And ask Him what He could have meant — 
By putting thy mark into the form he sent, 
For man to crucify. 

For the woman-soul was on that cross, 

The woman-soul has borne the loss. 

But 'tis man who hangs upon the cross. 

Did he mean by this to typify 

The power and strength of woman's sigh, 

As she stoops, and kneels beneath the frame 

And sees that twisted form in pain? 

Between that cross, where hangs that Man, 

There's a chasm, so wide and deep, no time can ever 

span. 
Iscariot sits, like "Prometheus Bound" 
And holds his lump of gold, so round, 
And, between Iscariot and his gold, 
And the Master whom he sold. 
There rolls, and rolls, a mighty sea, 
Coming between my soul, and me. 

133 



And this sea contains 

All that yet remains 

Of the writhing mass of quarreling men; 

With faces turned towards Judas, 

And backs turned to the Cross ; 

And woman bending, weeping, 

To shield a child, who holds a flower, 

Come angels, hover 'round that child, 

And guard his troubled hour. 

Speed on, thy flight O, Soul ! 

Try to know the why. 

Beyond, above, this darkened night, 

The wherefore of this dreadful fight. 

Invoke, and say, to Him 

Not He — whom man invented — 

But the One who created all. 

Invoke, and say to Him — I say — 

That He must find some other way. 

Appeal thou, with all thy might. 

For Him to change this force, and right. 

Go woman-soul, and plead our cause. 

Thy weapons should be strong. 

For thou art strong. 

And tell Him that our country's banner 

Must never wave her colors over wrong. 

Speed thou, O, Soul! 

Speed on, and say 

Our country's colors were made to save. 



Our country must a Savior be, 

Or she must die. 

Our country can not wave her colors 

Over any He. 

Go woman-soul — take thy flight, 

Take our apology for the night 

Thou hadst here below. 

We tried so hard, my heart and I — 

To help thee through the night — 

We tried so hard, my heart and I — 

But we have lost the fight. 

Go woman-soul, this thing they call the mind— 

O, no, I cannot believe our country's eyes are blind. 

I love the mother who cradled me, 

Stab I the ones who say she stands for tyranny. 

But, if you say so — you must whisper low — 

I may not hear you well — you know. 

She can not stand for cruelty. 

Did I hear aright? 

I can not believe you. 

She does not stand for might. 

Let every brother who was rocked with me — 

Hoist our mother's untarnished colors, 

Over every sea. 

Love I America, 

The sacred ground, beneath my feet — 

Love I the bosom 

Where my people sleep, 

They are watching me, I know, 

135 



As they sleep below, 

And they bid me remember, 

As I tread above their head 

They are watching me, forever. 

Though sleeping with the dead. 

My father — I have heard him criticized — 

He is my father — he is helpless — where he lies — 

Of him, it is so hard for me to speak, 

Silent I should be — if the others were — 

Like others, he did according to his light — 

He did what he thought was right — 

He thought he should a leader be. 

Men climbed up on him, and excluded us. 

Children should never make a fuss. 

Father, Celtic sorcerer that you were, 

Man who could strike the chord of every lyre, 

And throw over other men his Promethean fire, 

And take them whither, and whence, he would, 

We, who are below, will forgive the rest. 

If you'll only take our faithful mother to your breast. 

And let her know up there 

She is now without a single care. 

And has you — her lover — husband to herself, 

What care we, that into her nest 

The vultures came. 

This is just a small aside, 

For I would not be a parricide. 

He was only human. 
Father was a man 

136 



Mother was a woman. 
Come wave the banner over me, 
There is so much I would not see. 
Come, let its colors blind my eyes 
To both I would quite faithful be. 

I know — I know — none so well — 

What it is — this human hell. 

I only hope that now they smile together, 

What matters me? 

Come soul, hear my apology. 

They do not need their child's litany. 

Come soul and take thy flight 

Bid mind and heart a last good-night, 

Mind tried — and part succeeded — 

Heart tried — but went unheeded — 

Come, soul, both offer thee 

A merited apology. 

We three who dwelt together, 

In this frail house of clay. 

We three who knelt together 

We have had our day. 

Take the labeled body 

And put it away. 

Don't "plant daisies, at the head and feet" 

'Tis but a woman-shape that lies beneath, 

But, take that little curly head 

And those tiny feet. 

And point them to where his mother lies asleep. 

Give to that boy the daisies, 

Tell him to shed no tear, 

137 



But to take her country's banner — 
And raise it without a fear, 
For warriors need no daisies, 
Warriors need no tears. 

Should he, boy-Hke, be over-bold. 
Take pity on the little lad, 
And show him not the gold, 
Iscariot held upon his knee, 
Severing him from me. 

But, take him to the chasm 

Let him look upon the sea below, 

At the writhing shapes of men, 

Struggling in the human show. 

Then, turn him around, and let him face 

The man upon the cross, 

And tell him — let me mark it well, 

That, that, is all there is, between his soul and hell. 

And if he smiles as he is sure to do — 

Tell him the woman-soul is not on view — 

Tell him if he can not be a man 

His mother's life was lived in vain, 

That she died without a country, and a God, 

Call upon the sexton, to level down the sod — 

Fold up her country's colors, 

Don't them to the hght unfurl, 

For God and country both proclaim 

What it means, to be born a girl. 



138 



\/J^TIL yO\/ CAMB. 



Close I mine eyes, and see the cresting Alps, 
The self-same sun upon thy land, and mine. 
Far away, the stretching plain. 
And cypress walls come to me once again. 
The painted panes of some Cathedral dome, 
Encircling sea, and mountain, near thy home. 

I hear, again, the rich round notes 

Of some responsive bird. 

He thrills me, with a message, I have heard, 

I listen, for the answer he awoke; 

So quick it comes, a birdling's heart hath spoke. 

I feel again, the slumbering afternoon. 

And see once more a fair Venetian lagoon. 

And then I heave, ah me ! the saddest sigh. 

To remember the deep, deep red of thy Italian sky, 

And, then, I 'wake, and lift my eyes. 
Around me, to the loveliest skies. 
The 'circling Alps — the boundless sea, 
And then, I dream, I dream, of thee. 

There spreads, again, the beauty of thy land, 
I feel, once more, its midday heat, 

139 



There comes, to mind, some by-gone time 
And I am weeping, at thy country's feet. 

And thou cans't truly write thy name. 
With thy fair country's ever-lasting fame 
Gaze into her mighty past 
On glory, so sure to last. 

Now, I know why Angelo could grow, 
And Raphael Sanzio could be. 
Great Dante could from Beatrice live. 
And, then I sigh, 'tis so easy to forgive. 

'Tis Italy breathed into thy tender note, 

That wells so sweet, from thy deep throat. 

The mute pathos of it all, 

Starts the hot tears to fall, 

For, my poor wounded heart 

Knows it has no part, 

In olive groves, in Italy, and thee. 

There's a hush within my breast. 
Smiling, thus, I st^nd confessed. 
And gaze into thine eyes of brown 
My soul looks up, my heart looks down. 

God, who lays the course of things. 
By lights within His breast, 
Disdains me not, as I grope my way. 
From a ravishing world of bliss. 
For in my dreams there floats to me. 
Thy undelivered kiss. 



140 



THE MASTTKTiLBSrS' W O M A J^ . 

I am enveloped in as great a mystery 

As the creation of the universe, or the tiny pea. 

First find the riddle, nor pause for breath, 
Of the perplexing problems of life and death. 

And when you have the knowledge that you seek 
Tell me the price you paid, / mn meek. 

Then perhaps you will comprehend, 
Why I am masterless to the end. 



lifb'j: a'rithme.tic 

The line divided by joy, 

subtract 
From pain and wisdom, 

the sum exact 
Add to the interest of days, 

and years, 
That make the quotient 
111 



of human tears. 
Reduce the measure of toil, 

and strife. 
Whose compound interest 

shortens Hfe. 
Tax the clouds we seek 

to clasp, 
With flames, that hold us 

in their grasp. 

Discount the cup of 

human bliss, 
By stocks, and bonds, 

held in its kiss. 

Proportion out the roots, 

and squares, 
Whose solid forms make 

earthly tares. 

Lay out the fractions that 

yet remain. 
And point with decimals 

the part we gain. 

Make a line of double 

position, 
Multiply the errors, to find 

the condition, 
Thus the problem put to test, 

cancels 
For us, all the rest. 

142 



COX/LTt I -BX/T K.JVOW, 

Could I just begin again 

Forget this world, with its threnody of pain, 

Strike one clear note, without a sob, 

So pure and high 'twould reach to God ; 

Could I but know, somewhere, 'twould be 

Calm and cold — from passion free ; 

Could I wipe out the written scroll 

That Fate has marked across my soul ; 

Could I but know no thorn-crowned host 

Stalked this world, like whited ghost; 

Could I drop anchor into some quiet deep, 

At rest, alone, my soul asleep, 

With naught to vex me, as I slumbered so, 

No grim shadows to come and go ; 

Still, I would be unafraid 

Until one came, my Mother's shade, 

For, her dead lips would try to seek 

Their place of love, my woman's cheek, 

I should, then, so quiet be, sunk in deep humility, 

Knowing she was too great for me ; 

For she would totter, in her senseless clay. 
And try to kiss it all away. 
Would not chide me, with the part 
I had taken in her broken heart, 

143 



But, she would turn, and say to me, 
I want no horror to come to thee, 
I will thy Captain be, 
Through this gate of Eternity; 
Yes. She was too great, for me. 



'B'ROTHE'R. 

Standing all alone, by a piteous sea, 

I trembled in the darkness, for night was over me. 

Sleep was lost, love was gone, 

The victory bloodless, yet 'twas won. 

And all had ceased to be. 

Manacled I stood, chained alone was I, 

Gazing into darkness, then at the frowning sky; 

Across the slumbering mountain 

Thunder's voice did roar, 

I felt it all, and heard the answer, as before. 

I felt thy hand, which, humbly, I forbore to take, 

Strange child, like me, of unhappy fate. 

For death walked with us, at thy side, 

And hovered close to me; 

I gazed into his grinning face, 

He only stared, and quickened pace, 

144 



Then everything was clear, 

Why he should look first at thee, and then at me, 

With his exultant leer. 

I felt the ground slipping from beneath my feet. 

Yet listened to thy weeping, felt thy heart's deep beat. 

Then as we looked each at one another. 

And wondered when the morn would break, 

I knew you had forgot, I knew you heard me not, 

I questioned thee again, to speak to me, for her dear sake. 

Brooding thus alone, I spoke aloud of home, 

But was answered only with thy moan. 

Don't fear my kisses, I said, they will not stain thy cheek. 

Again I listened, but my kisses could not make thee speak. 

The shadows dipped once more, and turned us from the 

light. 
And then I muttered: brother, must it be good night f 

A deafening roar of thunder crashed across the sky, 

But I was only shaken, at thy feeble cry. 

For I tried so hard to move, and raise thee up, 

To dash from thee this last most bitter cup. 

I moved when I thought I heard thy helpless cry, 

But fell again, shuddering, for manacled, too, was I. 



145 
-10 



jrHj\KBS'PKJ\. 'RE. 

Crowded so full with every gift, 
Laughter of queer humanity, 
Every line so deep and rich, 
Carrying so much, no knowing which 
To leave before, behind. 

Great genius, so mightily emphatic. 

Plentiful, human, and dramatic, 

Artist, with high-rolling brow. 

Clothing this, and that, knowing so well how. 

Lacking only luscious note. 
That comes from lyric singers' throat. 
Music, Shakespeare, thou hadst none, 
All else, Shakespeare, thou hadst won, 

Why for this should any croak 

When thy great and mighty cloak 

Wrapped thee around in such great splendor. 

Tender and pathetic, human not divine. 

Not gods and demons, but men and women, here. 

Was the story of thy created Lear. 

Passing through great Shakespeare's frame, 

Rendering immortal great Shakespeare's name. 

yEschylus, the majestic — intellect's great delight, 

Could and did no better. Sublime thus to write. 



146 



TO A LEAF. 

Between clipped hedges, flanked by granite bench, 
Through gravelled walks, I wander idly by — 
Memory goes with me — time cannot quench, 
I wander through my home again, and then I sigh. 

The sunset vanishing — and twilight screens, 
I close my eyes, and go beyond this land of dreams. 
Stroll again around the dear old spot — 
Wandering through a place once more, I never have for- 
got. 

I thank thee friend, for this bit of green 
Though it has no longer its deepest sheen, 
I know by this there still survives, 
The sweetest growth around our lives. 

'Tis naught I'd do, with aught of truth, 
Misfortune hath borne for me such bitter fruit, 
Though I should despair, and give outcry, 
This tiny leaf would only wonder why. 

It bids me, remember, it once stood alone, 
Among the ivy, around a shrine, which was my home, 
Clustering and rising over all its walls — 
Nesting, as it listened, to every birdling's calls. 

To balustrades, now weather-stained, I know, 
Back to childhood's home, once more, I go. 

147 



Behold I a faint, fine line of shining peaks, 
A vanishing past, yet, to me, it speaks. 

Of gentle life, and tender love, 

A little flower, in a guarded wood, 

A tiny violet, believing all the world was good. 

The prosaic life I live today. 
Tells me all this has passed away, 
There lies before me this emerald leaf. 
All seamed and yellow underneath. 

And yet I know through childhood's grove. 
Dear friend with thee, some day I'll rove, 
I know you'll give the wanderer leave to roam, 
With ivy-leaf, once more, through our old home. 



Your eyes, Joan, are growing old. 

But your Darby, Joan, still is bold. 

Yet dear old heart, you must not grieve, 

If there come a long adieu, 

A parting hour for me, and you. 

I still am thine, and thou art mine. 

Darby still is bold, if Joan is growing old. 

148 



For thee, Joan, and only thee, 
Do all the birds sing mockingly. 
As they flit from tree to tree, 
Burdened full of rhapsody. 

And the breeze, Joan, as tenderly, 
Sighs and smiles, quite knowingly, 
Crouching amidst the lair 
Of jealous winds everywhere, 
Whom she disowns, and bids be still. 

While captive voice of whip-poor-will 
Breaks through and over, in loud song. 
To bid the mates their love prolong, 
For Darby and Joan. 

And every little butterfly 

Sends its colors — wondering why — 

The clover hides its blushes, 

And the sly brook smiles among the rushes. 

The little flowers, Joan, come whispering, 
Thy name to Darby, confidingly. 
And send across their perfume sweet. 
To shed its scent around old Joan's feet. 

Knowing they have the right, like rain. 
To kiss my Joan's cheek, and free from pain, 
Her eyes so old, blinded with the light 
Of this great love's delight. 

Surely Darby's heart is full of feeling 

That everything around, is bent upon the stealing. 

149 



By the right of having found — 

And all are bent on calling, 

The joy that is befalling, 

One whom they know as well as I. 

None echoing faintest sigh. 

For every growing thing 
The glad tidings bring 
Give Joan full possession 
Of Darby's sweet confession. 

When all the tiny murmuring rills. 

Come low-voiced, not to confuse. 

And whisper Darby's secret to the hills, 

How can old Joan still refuse ? 

For Darby yet is bold — if Joan is growing old. 



OFF THE, COAST OF ^ A J^ JS> J rBA'R. 

M. A. S.— U. S. N. 

'Twas off the coast of Zanzibar, 
The lightning 'round me flashing, 
I waived adieu to a jolly tar, 
Most ardent, and most dashing. 

Again I waived adieu, as on the deck he stood. 
My gallant lover. I flashed my glance 
And followed him, across the dancing water. 
This jolly tar, who ardently had loved my mother's 
daughter. 

150 



This was years ago, this coming summer, 

By the waters of the ocean, near dear old Zanzibar, 

When I looked again, across the harbor, 

The ship had sailed away, beyond the bar. 

Then one night, as lonely I was singing, 
While the waters began rushing towards the shore, 
I thought I heard a gallant "middle's" whistle, 
Calling loud above the water's roar. 

Do you remember when you were "Ensign," Captain, 

And I was just a little girl. 

How I echoed back a whistle to your calling, 

And we heard each other loud above the rushing whirl? 

Since then, you know, I have learned much better, 

And my eyes have found the way to weep, 

But still, at times, around the coast I see the lightning 

flashing 
When those eyes you used to love, are fast asleep. 



Love is a thing that has so 

many counterfeits. 
Has been sung so often, by our 

lyric wits, 
Anacreon, among the Greeks, of 

ancient times. 
And Horace, the Roman, wrote 

successful rhymes. 

351 



Indeed, all our great poets 

understood, it seems, 
What it was to love, and could 

write a sonnet 
More than good upon it. 

Then among 
Moderns there was Moore 

some call him artificial 

But he keeps the floor. 

And Burns, 
Of horrid, Scottish, dialect, 

yet when 
All is said, standing at the 

head 
Of Lyric poets. Then 

Petrarch 

Sang his sonnets^ and 

Pindar his odes 
Oh ! there are loads, and loads, 

of bards, 
With sparks, more or less, of 

Promethean fire. 
Who tune their lyre, to sing 

of love, 

Enhancing our pleasure, when 

they give us 
These things, pictured in 

melodious measure, 
Which, to be quite exact, 

152 



is better than a 
Bald-faced fact, and to be 
more specific still, 

There is something in sweet sound 

to thrill us, 
Even, though we know, 'tis but 

the inward glow, 
Of love itself, made manifest, 

in beauty thus confessed. 
From which we glean, that 

poets are good lovers, 

As well as human brothers. 

But love, 
What do I say of it? Perhaps 

if you knew 
That I find it easier, and quite 

as true. 
To say what it is not Sometimes 

it comes 

To one, and exists entirely 

unasked. 
Unwelcome, and found full-grown, 

when rudely unmasked — 
Growing, without return, increasing 

hour, by hour, 
Beautiful, full and great, like 

a glorious flower. 



Brightening under stormy frown, 

and when 
False lips say nay, the 

heart beats 
Without response, having its own 

way. 
And even if by one's own act, 

life goes coldly on. 

And the calendar of days 

says 
There is no wrong — the 

heart 
Understanding not, sings 

its 
Own sweet song. 



:b\/o/^j\ jvotte, 

SiGNOR A. Milan. 

"Buona notte, buona notte !" — Come mai 
La notte sara buona senza te? 

Non divini buona notte, — che tu sai, 
La notte sa star buona da per se." 

154 



GO BTHE. 



With the setting- of thy sun 

Went thinker, poet, philosopher, all in one. 

Genius supreme, knowing- every theme. 

Marvel of universal power. 

Shining alone during his little hour, , 



1. vcy. 

It must be nice to be like thee, 

Little children around thy knee, 

So pure and true, from all vices free, 

So sweet, so tender. Send me the master-key, 

To steal thy heart's great splendor. 



"BAL^A C , 

Epoch-maker Honore. Realist not filled with gloom 

Man, who never lived, and died too soon. 

Great mind, great heart, great soul. 

Who broke, just as he reached the goal. 

This man is a dear, dear friend 

And will be so until the end — to me 

As long as heart, and mind, and eye can see. 

155 



H. M. 

Greetings, friend, across the silent years ! 

That we have been "exchanging- the full fresh cheeks 

Of early youth," for wisdom born of tears. 

Though the devil said "he never made acquaintance with 

the dead" 
This is not the very worst thing, the devil ever said. 

I have passed through much, since last I saw you at my 

"parlor door" — 
Have felt the power of purse, and strength, as warriors 

have before. 
And have been whirled around in many a storm, 
Since that far-away day. 
But Summer has its blessings, as well as early May. 

"What has been, has been ; what is done is past" 

I am grateful for remembrance, and for prayer. 

You have never been forgotten, in my heart will always 

last, 
For memory takes you with us, everywhere. 



166 



GHE 'DESri'RE. OF ^HE, SOMI. FO'R 
HA 'RMOJWy. 



" Unhappy is the man, or woman, whose soul burns with artistic and 
poetic passion, which can find no »utward expression." — Extract 
from letter. 

The deeps, though dumb, are known to cry, 

Have you heard the waving- forest sign? 

Winds murmur, and voices come 

At nature's call, and speak. 

Long grasses moan, and seek some clasping hand 

Have you not stood alone in shady wood, and heard the 

echo hollow 
As you listened to the song of homing swallow ? 

Don't you know that blue-bells ring 

And bees hum, and insects sing? 

What dumb voice is louder than the Russian serf? 

What race of conquering kings and strong, can atone 

For his great, deep, voiceless wrong? 

No cry is heard, yet who speak so loud ? 

Dead, though living in a shroud. 

How many lashings of the flail 

Does it take to make woman wail ? 

The great, the rich, the strong, whip into eloquence 

By some mighty wrong — which always goes before 

An open door where grief cries out. 

157 



What creeping, hiding thing, has a louder hum 

Than the trodden human slum? 

Human flesh is fair — it can rise 

The mind and heart hunger for the skies 

Only after pain — harmony will spring again 

Of itself, from nature's poise. 

Nature struggling to right herself 

Always makes a noise. 

Don't you know that, dear friend? 

Desire for harmony is the soul's great end. 

And harmony is poise. 

One has but to look at you 

To know, that harmony beats true, 

Dear friend, harmony beats true, 

And harmony means? Good. 

And good means? Help, dear friend, help. 

Help is not repression, help is your "expression' 

Your "outward" flow, of inward glow. 

Fie ! dear friend, fie ! 



SO/fG. 

I would be shepherd, tending flocks, 
Not on the "king's high-way," 
Where unborn violets sleep near rocks, 
And floating moonbeams play. 

158 



I would be shepherd and 'tend my flocks, 
Then lie with them, to dream, 
And watch the daisies, a^s they grew. 
And blue-bells nodding unto blue. 

I'd lay me down, in grasses deep. 
My wandering flocks and I asleep, 
Sweet silence settling on my brain, 
I then would be, a child again. 

With gentle tinkling of the bell. 
On baby lamb, within the dell. 
Glad so to be, and linger there. 
Sky and earth to hear my prayer. 

He would come, and standing near to me, 
Bleating out how this could ever be, 
Trot by my side, with tinkling bell, 
To purple heather in his dell. 

Would lay his nose upon my knee. 
And bleat, and bleat, as sweet could be, 
Bah ! Bah ! Bah ! 

Abandoning flocks to be near me. 
And bleat, and bleat, as sweet could be. 

I would be shepherd, tending flocks. 
Not on the "king's high-way," 
Where un-born violets sleep near rocks, 
And floating moonbeams play. 



159 



'BBffJAMIJ^ IBWTTK'RWO'RTH. 

IN MEMOPvIAM. 
Dedicated to his friend, Hon. J. G. Cannon, Washington, D. C. 

You loved him, too? Great-hearted Ben. 
Kindest and best of men. 
With hunger, and thirst, for right, 
Not sycophant in ranks of might, 
Nor enlisted with the strong, 
Interest-blmd, to acts of wrong. 

With his love for good. 

And hopes for happy brotherhood, 

And belief in man's duty, unto man, 

Tender at the sight of pain. 

Not following in the quest of gain ; 

Wholesome, happy, harmony in his giant frame. 

Some day, perhaps, we will take him by the hand. 

In that-who-can-tell no-distant-land. 

And greeting unto us, he will never say, 

"Nay," friends, "nay." 



160 



/ HAD A 'D'RBAM. 

I had a dream, and I dreamed my country died. 

I was alone, high up on mountain side. 

And touched a granite stone, and sat down there, alone. 

And woman-like, began to cry. 

I could not untie my soul, from my country's heart, 
Because of my country I was still a tiny part. 
I told myself my country still loved me. 
While remembering what I'd seen of earth on every 
absent sea. 

But all of wisdom, all of art, 
Can not atone for any bleeding heart. 
And I had just dreamed she died. 
And woman-like, I cried. 

Alone, upon the mountain side. 

Struggling against an adverse fate. 

Nay, for very life. 

And then I cried, a Uttle, for myself 

To know I had been balanced against the god of pelf. 

Then I wept, in torrents, this time 'twas for myself. 
And I moved to gather comfort, walking towards a tiny 

spring. 
And as I gazed around me, remembered how strength 

had power to sting. 
And I thought, as I watched the water drop, 
That suffering, born of strength, would never stop. 

161 
-I I 



And sat down once more, upon the mountain side, 
Woman-like I just cried, and cried, and cried. 
Growing weary as the night came on, 
I took some moss, and laid it under head. 
The sweet smell of earth, clinging to its root, 
Whispered in my ear — something of the truth. 

That I was made only for him to feed. 
That God and nature meant I was just to breed. 
The mocking discord that had settled around my life, 
Meant my country, and its man, preferred the wanton to 
the wife. 

"That the city of love, and my brother-soul" 

Had broken faith with me. 

And chaos, son of darkness, had taken bed with me. 

That heart, and brain, and soul, had now each particular 

part 
Instead of blended harmony, God's own highest art. 

That the tragedy of my broken life. 
Meant man preferred the wanton, to the wife. 
As I lay alone, and tried to sleep, 

That subtle beast, named serpent, began towards me to 
creep. 

I lay there in a kind of trance, 

That formidable beast began to dance, 

And then I understood the seduction of Eve, 

That great beast was radical, this her mighty creed. 



162 



That anything that flowed from me, 
In intellect and heart, 
The serpent, understanding not. 
Could never have a part. 

The spontaneous, conquering wanton 
Meant man was beast — at home with her. 
Ambition and sensuality were the serpent's choice, 
Heart, and mind, and soul, therefore had no voice. 

I nodded there, in slumber, unafraid of creeping snake. 
Dreaming child bom of my brother-soul rested on my 

heart. 
And then I crossed my hands back upon my head, 
Saying each must have his due : one of us is dead. 

But I forgot the serpent gazing there at me. 
Until I woke and found her coiled around my throat, 
And when she coiled as tight as she could be — 'twas 

then I 'woke. 
Gone were child and man I thought I held upon my heart 
For I had been strangled, by serpent, alone on mountain 

top, in the dark. 



To that very excellent essayist in the White House, Theodore Uoosevelt. 

When fire-lit sire sprang out from hell, 

The god Siva 

Suddenly heard 

The devil's muttering and mighty word. 

163 



The busy imp-chorus of the night took flight, 

None dared to stay, 

But jumped, and hooted, and tore away. 

Alone sat Siren, in bewitching bower. 
Enjoying a rest, and an idle hour. 
Moving, and stirring, and thrilling, with life. 
Cooing and woomg, dying for strife. 

Through the long grass, the serpent stole by, 
Stealing, and hissing, giving out sigh, 
Wriggling, and sneaking, in silence he bore, 
Close to the siren, who let out a great roar. 

These three were there: siren, and sire, and snake, in 

prayer, 
When up from hell a loaded ship 
Poured out some devils, who began to skip. 

The moon sailing by, in array so proud, 

Was ashamed, and hid behind a cloud. 

The dark turned black, 

The stars grew dim, 

Taking no part in the horning sin. 

The ruling god of the bottomless pit. 
Ordered the chorus to spit, and spit, 
The sire, and the siren, took great fright, 
The serpent, and imps, began to fight. 

The devil ordered them all to flit, 

In the digesting furnace of hell to sit. 

He alone would stay above 

To watch the result, of this great free love. 

164 



Those fiery imps were needed below, tc 
Watch his monarchy grow, and grow, 
To organize police, and lead debate, 
And attend to matters of his great state. 

To teach his science of punishment, to 

Fit the mind of the human kind, 

To the positive wheel, of the only real. 

He would stay to fit on the iron glove, 

Of the children born of the sire's great love. 

'Twould be worth his while, to revive an old style, 

To rend and tear, instead of prayer. 

Then he would silently back to hell. 

When, without him, they could live as well. 

He would tumble when from this primal mess, 
Had grown some active and mastering devils, 
Known as revolt, and stubborn rebels. 
He himself swinging, to and fro. 
Watch the children of anarchy grow. 

Fit for the common understanding, 

Sailing great circles, under general-commanding. 

So they descended back to hell. 

Sire, and Siren, got on very well. 

In course of time, had children nine, 
And all went well, governed by the 
Master-fiend from hell. 
Astute, ordering all things, for the best. 
North, and South, East and West. 

165 



And the world astound, swinging 
His great wide circle round, 
Getting credit for being true, 
In spite of some things his devils do. 
For cruel words he leaves unsaid. 
Of abandoned, and blasphemed dead. 

In his imps he had faith supreme, 
Their loyalty to him was never a dream, 
A contract to furnish slaves he'd 
Not retract, although unexpressed 
Silent, tacit, unconfessed. 
By the devil thus oppressed. 

Will you believe me every name of these children began 

with M. 
Malevolence, malice, malignity and then, 
Material, mean ; these five are still alive. 
The busiest devils, in the great big hive. 
The other four walked through the door, 
And fell — what do you think — straight back 
To hell. Now that's a shame, for on the 
Devil will fall the blame, for this negation, 
But the other children have hourly ovation. 

In this great big material nation, this 
Negative pole, without a soul, 
'Twould not be rude to call it crude, 
But it has big place, is not dead stuflf, 
Materialism is no big bluff. 

166 



Some day it must step aside, for negative cannot ride 
This great big pill of deflected will, 
Out of health, in search of wealth, 
Losing strength, and losing sanity, 
Inviting death, inviting anarchy. 

Denying the ideal, in the search of the real, 
For evolution don't open that way. 
That's why war is wrong I say. 
For war bends back, is built that way. 
Revolution and war are one I say. 

O ! God of hosts ! guide my country right. 
Lead her along, not with blinded sight. 
Why should her son, born from out her side, 
Perish for wrong, in the name of pride. 

Still he loves mother, would defend her at her door, 

When other nations around her, wish for war's loud 
roar. 

And point their muzzles at her, "sing the song of can- 
non ball," 

Then every son she bore will defend her — all of them, 
yes all. 

Ah ! I weep to know, 

O ! God of hosts, that this is so, 

See the blood in rivers, from my brothers flow. 

Trenches filled with dying, rotting there below. 

Courage born of mother, in my veins is flowing still. 
America, great mother — God guard thee as He will. 
The banner I was taught to love, I cannot see it wave. 
My country I was taught, was a savior, made to save. 



O ! God of hosts, make that banner still wave true. 
Every star shine bright upon its field of blue. 
What has my brother done, nursed upon her breast, 
As twin with me, love for her confessed. 

Ah me ! must he be dead, and He alone to sleep. 
Come choir of angels, vigil around him keep. 
I know you hover still above his head. 
Piled deep in trenches, sleeping with the dead. 

Gently though he was rocked with me, mother bending 

near, 
Yet the devils creep, and jump, around this brother's 

bier. 
Come fair America, laurel on thy brow. 
Sit boldly, serpent underneath thy feet, and tell them 

how. 

Stretch out thy long arm, o'er all the "seven seas," 
Every devil, sired of hell, down upon his knees. 
Throw out thy stream of life, down the god of war, 
America, as loyal wife, still faithful to her star. 

O ! God of hosts ! Come let us sing, 
Pass along the word, on angel's pure-white wing. 
Guide thou our souls, as the heavenly host I pray. 
Children, born of siren, they have had their day. 

Serpents at the Christening, sneaking through the grass, 
O ! lord of hosts, let these devils pass. 
Born of siren — surnamed vanity, lowest deviled-lass. 
Come, brave America, sitting strong and sane, 

168 



Marshall all thy forces, around thy knee again. 

Fill up thy wounded ranks, all going well once more, 

"House divided against itself," gone out the devil's door. 

None born of siren, from fire-lit sire of hell. 
Vonity — named siren — concubined by son of hell, 
Serpents crawling from this nest, 
North and South, East and West — 
Malevolence and malice, assassins of the soul. 
Breeding disease around them, as they roll and roll. 

Come my nation, be the sun of central life, 
Let others revolve around thee, as planet and satellite 
Permeated by thy greater heat and greater light 
Electrified by this — do away with strife. 

Energy, created by this blazing sun 
Let it look up, guided by a greater One 
Turn back the world's big negative wheel 
Let purity and love, greater harmony steal. 

The world will then, at length, 
Be one great mind, of sanity, and strength. 
For what is wealth, without this health. 
What is mind, without a soul, 
Why should beast be the world's one goal? 
The beast is all right in its place, 

But a nation made of beast alone, will lose in the final 
race. 

A nation is no greater than its unit. 
Intelligence, and soul, should guide them all. 

169 



Beast is all right, to make enduring. 

For without it, intelligence and soul will surely fall. 

Soul and light stand first for order, 

"All goes well." Hear the sentry speak. 

Negation has no dominance. 

Any nation who goes by this will spring a leak. 

I want my flag, Captain, at the White House, 
To float above, high towards heaven's dome. 
The eagle soaring, with unflinching eye, 
Straight towards sun, highest in the sky. 

With little fluttering birds around her, 

Knowing she is brave. 

God, make the Eagle's banner. 

A banner made to save. 

No destroying serpent, stealing through the grass, 
Sired by Siva, god of hell, and Siren, vanity's lass, 
Can snatch the eagle's laurel, from off the eagle's brow. 
America, be central sun, showing them all hov/. 



170 



THE, TOEUJr SKA'RCH F O Tt. UHE 
A 'BSOI.yjrSE,. 

A sleeping poet once from a deep, long period 

Of neglected night, awoke, and cried. 

For he found that while he slept laughter on earth had 

died, 
And the world had gone a-weeping. 
A light seemed to dawn upon his soul as he wept, 
That had been darkened for years, as he slept. 
He thought of all that had gone before, 
As the solemn march of Centuries unrolled before his 

door. 
And he, like the great band of singers looking around 

for truth. 
Had found, could find, nothing absolute. 
Some wrote of fairies, some of mountains 
And of problems of the world; 
Some laughed and wept, at home 
With mystic and with beast ; 
Some painted with the colors of the Occident, 
Some dipped brushes in the East. 
Some cherished revenge under love's great cloak. 
Finding shelter with religion, and with venom spoke. 
Servile to evil, with hysteric's insane note. 
Some with a mighty thirst for right. 
So the poet went to sleeping, went to dreaming for more 

sight, 



Saying over every name, that had glowed and burned 

And died in fleeting fame. 

The great, and the majestic, and the solemn, and the 

clear, 
And the luscious, and the manly, and those whose note 

was fear. 
Tlie English, the American, the Teuton, and the Slav, 
Every Frenchman, classic Latin, and sometimes — prudish 

Greek, 
Went to thinking of the science in the great big book. 
And to trembling at the mission of the cross. 
The poet, tired of tracing all these circles wide and deep, 
Went a-nodding, and a-dreaming, and fell again to sleep. 
They all had said that laughter in the world had died, 
And the poet went to thinking, and to wondering, as he 

sighed. 
As he nodded, not quite sleeping, a spirit stole 
To him and spoke in strange voice, 
Stealing, unaware, so the poet had no choice, 
But dwelt on the border, the border of despair, 
Not fearing, but desiring, to explore the great white 

light, 
Shining behind the spirit as he spoke. 
He fell into deep breathing, was transformed into a 

strange force. 
Slowly following the spirit in his course; 
And the light all around him seemed to brighten and to 

roll 
As they entered the great white city of the soul. 
Then there was no more reading, no more thinking, no 

more night, 
In this border land that science had opened to his sight, 

172 



For science is the border to the world of light. 

The unrest of the poet's soul 

Borrowed vigor from a vision of its coming might. 

As he followed the spirit, who led him further up, 

A woman came to offer him a drink from her sorceress 

cup. 
When he drank, the spirit deserted him, and he shivered 

there with pain, 
Tearfully pleading with the Angel to come again, 
Promising to pass to mankind her magic drink, 
For sorrow had sobbed him from the dangerous brink. 
As he stood uncertain, a lurid light broke up the spell. 
And the sorceress took the poet into the depths of hell, 
New doctrines introducing as they fell, 
Into her great play-ground. 
Remember she said , you are not my victim unless you 

die. 
Strangled in my school of fools, 
Poisoned with the arrows of my thought ; 
For I can change your every cheating yesterday on the 

dial of time. 
And make you live again with understanding hour of 

mine, 
Asking only as a payment you change shapes with me. 
Returning to Earth, live again the cruel part 
Of poet in woman-form, in the cause of Art. 
You were dreaming, said the sorceress, 
When you drank my fatal cup, 
I will make you Queen of Music, 
If you will agree, and lift me up. 
'Twould be sad to see your sun go down, 

173 



And never wake to dawn, 

Prophesy unfulfilled, with my sorcery for the pawn. 

I tire of witnessing respectable, and socialist, 

Lurid mixed with black, 

Your world moving 'round and 'round the same old 

track. 
There are things I would like to know 
At which I dare not stare, 

For your sorceress is always prude, when she's fair. 
I would like for once to lead you all a merry dance. 
Be turned to brother Gaston, animated France. 
I like the wisdom in his laugh, the mixture in his tear, 
I like the halo around his living name. 
And the glory around his bier. 
Saying this the woman said: You know you are not 

dead. 
Come into the forest deep, 
You are not, like me, forced to keep 
In the shadow of a vanishing light. 
Come, take my shape in punishment for this night, 
And with it my wild and tender note of song from 

woman's freer throat ; 
With naught to fear of things austere, or thirst; 
Only with this woman-shape be cursed. 
And the poet waking from his trance so deep, 
Trembled and shuddered in his sleep. 
Said the poet: I begin to see. 
I might have been a woman, how much sadder life could 

be! 
I will ne'er complain, but will reclaim my own. 
Thank God, I am not doomed to roll her heavy stone ! 

174 



ET>CA7<. rO£. 

France and England, more's the shame, 
Had to place the laurel around the name 
Of this rare and strange one. 
Just Edgar Poe, whose haunting charm rings 
Music from his "Bells," and hovers over 
"Helen, the Sleeper," and his Raven, not quite sane, 
Yet the only song America has woven with his name. 
For he was a poet, ringing clear and true; 
No solver of problems, or a mystic. 
His ideas and philosophy I do not admire, 
Just the haunting music of his lyre. 
The singer and his song, Edgar Poe, and "Helen, the 
Sleeper." 



TO THE M ALIG/fA/fT. 

Why should you wish for ill, to all? 
Why can not you just be kind? 
Make one last appeal to the angels 
To have them change your mind. 

How can you just for love of evil 
Be bent on doing ill? 
Make one last appeal to the angels 
To have them change your will. 



175 



'DO'RAUHy. 

Tiny little maiden, flowers twined in her golden hair, 
Big brown eyes, coral lips, dimples in her cheeks so fair; 
Dainty little maiden, who cannot reach so high, because 

she is so small; 
Roses 'round her neck, as she treads on flowers, 
Roses in her cheeks, all the happy hours. 

Tiny little maiden, with beautiful golden curls, 
Daintiest little maiden, of all the little girls, 
Swinging on a rose bush, violets underneath her feet; 
I am afraid she is the sweetest flower of all the flowers 
so sweet. 



MAJO'R. 

"She was a cultured lady, and I had her forty years." — His Own Words. 

He was an old man. A man of yesterday. 

But the sweetness of her memory flooded still his life, 

As he told me the story of his long-loved wife. 

When he spoke of her his voice grew rich and deep, 

And his eye turned bright, 

For she, of his life, had been the Hght 

I could see the string she had left in his soul vibrate, 

Yield its tone, and its love relate. 

176 



I saw the holly hocks nod in their garden vast, 

And the marigold, as I peeped into their vanished past; 

There were peonies, and daisies, with hearts of gold, 

As I looked on the silver hair of this man so old. 

Again he sings his silent song, 

To her gone from his life so long; 

And every time as he turns to pray 

He is tired a little more each day. 

He knows at night her lamp is lit , 

And swung aloft, as she watches; 

Intoning notes of their past love-song 

To him, in the quiet. He hears, and listens. 

There's a laden-lattice across the night 

Heavy with the scent of past love-light, 

And a-sobbing. 

Across his path a shadow creeps, his mind is in a whirl, 

For there she is before him, just a girl, 

So lightly dancing to treble notes of youth's great violin. 

He hears the murmur of each moaning note. 

Bearing a message from her throat, 

A consolation to him, and a prayer. 

A branch of honeysuckle brushes across his face 

This time he sees a vision clear, break in life's morning. 

Two hands outstretched, two eyes of fire 

Giving the message of love's desire. 

He sees a pretty little mouth, and dimples. 

As he moves the first grey light of dawn is chill, 

There is no response to love's old-time thrill. 

She has passed away from out life's warp. 

She plays no more on life's sad harp. 

And he is lonely. 

177 
— 12 



THE "RBVOLT OF THB M I JWD . 

When passion forsakes love 

And merges into vice; 

When jealousy divorces justice 

And cruelty reigns as King; 

When treachery riding rampant 

In the guise of truth begins to sing; 

Heart, then, looks up to mind 
Mind grows wroth, and with fever stirs, 
Saying the fault is surely only hers. 
What have you done to be so blind? 
Ah, said heart, I was so kind. 

Mind answered he was no absolute power; 

And fumed and tore, 

Love was heart's dower. 

Both turned, and demanded of the sturdy soul to bear 

this woe. 
She answered bravely, but very low: 
I have endured so much, I can no further go. 

This added insult I cannot bear. 

Empty heart became ill-balanced, 

Mind began to fear. 

Subtlety and cunning borrowed mirth's fat cheeks. 

Gallant breasts advanced to take the stroke; 

Triumphant vice, who hates the human race, 

Wheeled like despot, marking out its place. 

178 



This remorseless thing mocked at the heart, 

Because she wanted love, 

But trembled at the soul, whom she feared ; 

Mind, steadying himself, said there were for him 

No women, and no men. 

Ideas were the things he worshipped; and then, 

He knew some secrets, as well as God himself. 
He would abandon soul, he would abandon heart, 
If they were slave, he was free; of them he was no long- 
er part, 
He could not be bought, 
These were not the things he sought. 

He would go and seek, with the added light 

They had given him, 

A heart, and soul, not so great, but whose rule was less 

dim, 
He could never again with them live. 
Mind does not forgive. 



"A FISH." 

To the friend who sent me a stuffed fish, with the kind suggestion tliat I adopt the 
member of the finny tribe as my "coat of arras." 

In centuries long gone by, Scotland, Ireland, 
And Spain, settled the question, friend, of arms around 

my name; 
I hardly see how I could well become a "shark" 
And am sorry that you think me such an "easy mark." 

179 



Ancestry has something to do with one you know. 

Doctors, farmers, statesmen, dictate the flow 

Of different blood for me. 'Tis this decides you see. 

I hardly see where and how the past has trod, 

To make me understand the noble game of fraud. 

And usury. 

You may pile your wealth, friend, with any methods 

You see fit, yet you will never be like me. 

You are not to blame for this, and it's sad, you see. 

Fraud, usury, force and pull, all go together. 

Am sorry not to be able to follow your great bell wether; 

Sprung as I am from those enlisted in the service 

Of humanity and of the nation, 

You and I must work out a different salvation. 



"THB THIJ^G HE, H A !> "BECOME.." 

'Tis to drag her name down in the mud, 

To stab her deep in the heart. 

And drink her blood. 

'Tis to be a vampire and make of her body 

One great wound , 

And while it bleeds, make still another; 

'Tis to leave her quite alone, 
And side with the enemy, traitor to your home. 
Your God, your Country, your friend, and the 
oppressed, 



For a traitor to his home will be traitor to all the rest. 

'Tis to hold your ear for the poison of the knave, 

To saturate your brain and twist your mind, 

Till your sight becomes crooked, and your eyes go blind, 

The sister you should guard above your life 

Is made a common suspect ; and this you call your wife. 

'Tis not to come and say: 

I do not want you: you are in my way; 

'Tis not to be so fair. 

'Tis iust to hound her like beast to lair. 

'Tis no longer to think yourself so brave, 
When not upheld by men you thought were slave. 
But 'tis to crave a kiss from her dead lips, 
And her dead cheek and with her speak. 

'Tis then to know the thing you are ! 
She wished to be your guiding star. 
And lead you from corruption's ground. 
How could she know you were but hound? 

'Tis to have the low detective race 
Persecute and spit into her face, 
'Tis to do all this, and more, by far, 
And still not know the thing you are. 

'Tis not to know when the dirty battle has been won, 
The world with you then is done, 
And will watch you, laughing, sink lower in the mire, 
And hold its sides — while you are burning in its fire. 



181 



LET HB-R SLEET. 

Maky. 

She is dead, do not weep, 
She is gone, lay her deep; 
Down below. 

Let her sleep. 

And the grass above her head, 
Let it wave, she is dead. 
Under snow. 

Let her sleep. 

And her grave, very deep, 
What cares she? Let her sleep; 
She does not know. 

Let her sleep. 

And the winds, let them sing, 
Above her head, she is dead ; 
Softly moan. 

Let her sleep. 

Nor to pine, she was not thine. 
Nor gay, but to pray. 
Made no plaint, just a saint. 
Let her sleep. 

And the harp, she would play, 
It is dumb, still doth say. 
Strike one string, she would pray: 
Let me sleep. 

182 



LO'R'D :ByROjv. 

Come mysterious Manfred of the gloomy heart, 
Burning incense from the Orient, indignant at the part 
Played by apologies of men. It seems to me, nor am I 

wrong. 
That the something lacking in your song 
And making it not endure, nor stand alone 
Is the intense diabolism of its tone. 

Deceiving us, as well, with borrowed light 

From your beauty and your rank, 

And seldom, if ever, clear. 

Nor is your music suited to the better ear, 

For you cannot rise to greatness which is tragedy. 

Great poets who stand alone, and are to last. 

Are not comics of the present, nor plasters of the past. 

Nor can I understand how a scattered lover 

Can belch volcanic fire. 

Force and volcanic 'ruption come from chained desire. 

Yet beneath it all you loved yourself alone. 

Your pride was natural in a beauty, and a man of sport, 

For the ladies do not laugh such a toy from love's court. 

Poor George Gordon! 



183 



HOTELBSrS^ LOVE. 

Clouds and sun, smiles and tears, every day it is the 
same. 

Friendship beams in steady rays, passion dies in burn- 
ing flame. 

Friendship is burden-bearer, nor yet doomed. 

By fires too hot to be consumed. 

Friendship is great every-day. 

Passion, Emperor, demanding his own way. 

Poets and philosophers have great delight 

Betwixt passions power and friendship's might. 

Once I heard a man speak. 

Who had no wish to kiss my lip, or cheek, 

Who told me work was good for all sorts of things. 

Faithful pilot, he, for lo! these many years. 

How nice to be, like him, while hiding tears! 

To sit and 'tend so true a duty, 

Not denying, nor yet admitting, the all-pervading power 
of beauty. 

Jostled and constrained by crosses, 

Wasting, yet renewed, by losses, 

Born of love denied. 

Forward he travels, seeming not to waste, 

Nor dropping burdens, one by one ; 

Proudly his banner he holds aloft. 

And yet he is the same, to me, but still another's. 

And leads me into fertile valley, a noble stream of life 
rejoicing, 

181 



And he tells me, and I believe him: work is all there is of 

life. 
Yet I know he carries burdens, devoid of value in his 

eyes, 
On the surface, bearing blue light of the skies. 
And while I know I would only have to say : 
Dear one, there is still another way, 
A supply for both, a precious mass, 
He would only answer: believe me, it must pass. 
And taking my hand, would turn into fertile valleys, 
A noble stream of life rejoicing, and would say: 
"Work is the only way," and stoop to Hft his burdens, 
Devoid of value, in his eyes, 
On the surface, bearing blue light of the skies. 
I would try to walk that fragrant valley sweet. 
Where this great one had turned my stumbling feet. 
Would not feel the scorching sun 
Nor fiery sands, blistering underneath; 
But would watch the nodding flowers. 
As they answered : yes 'tis sweet. 

But I would know, at last, there can be nothing real, 
And so would try to reach some great ideal, 
Would ask the angels to approve this love. 
For it to lead to God above. 

Turning, I would watch him where he dropped my trem- 
bling hand, 
Seeing not the desert, nor feel the burning sand; 
Should try to fix my aim to attain 
The worthy light that brightens his great name. 

185 



Watching him carrying burdens, devoid of value in his 

eyes 
Turn my gaze up to the "Iris of the skies," 
Adore him, silently, from afar 
With gaze fixed upon his mighty star. 
'Twould not be kind to tie my burdens to his cross, 
And loving thus there could be no loss, 
Though I was not devoid of value in his eyes, 
I would be the depth, and not the surface, 
The true light of his skies. 
To face and follow him, yet he to never know 
For he had wished the burden to be great like this, you 

know. 
Love, itself, will forgive the awful night, 
For the laws of true love always point to right. 

And I turn and try to walk this valley sweet 

Where this guiding one has turned my stumbling feet. 

Nor feel the scorching sun, nor blistering sands burn- 
ing underneath. 

And watch the nodding flowers, as they answer: it is 
sweet. 

And the lonely march guided by the lily's yellow 
torch. 

Shining bright to show the grandeur of nature's white 
and purer light. 

And as I walk in this fertile valley sweet 

The thirst of wounded things around me begin to greet. 

As I raise my wand borrowed from the "Iris of the 
skies" 

Torn and bleeding things around me rise. 

6 

186 



And this love, which had mounted to my brain 

And fired my heart, saw, at last, a greater pain 

And my senses, so absorbed, gazing from afar, 

Understood the message of the wise-men's star. 

And as I gazed upon the fleeting vision of the past 

This love took upon itself free spirit wings. 

Meditation kneels at my feet, and wrings 

From my soul its own delight. 

Born of three-fold power of heart, and mind, and sight. 

But heights are lonely places, the very essence of de- 
spair 

For in the heights are born the torrents that deceive us 
as they roll, 

Spreading o'er the senses the mirage of the soul. 

There is danger lurking as we reach the sky. 

Answering to some form of the lower human cry. 

And if love had not one's soul forsook 

'Twere better to be the fleeting sunbeam near the shal- 
low brook. 



187 



To Marie Le. B. New York. 

You ask me where unfolds the light 
That leads my soul away from night? 
Life's sad current for a time forgot, 
Desolation in fresh waters caught. 

No flower can come, they say, from barren land, 
No sweetened waters gush from marshy sand ; 
Sometimes there is a sweeping underflow. 
Freshened currents eddying from deeps below. 
Beneath a desert dreary. 

I live dear friend, in a land all of mine own. 

By the great world forgotten, and no longer known, 

Not like pale-faced Saint in Convent cell. 

But in my world alone I dwell. 

There is no glory in this beautiful land. 

There are no dead ; there is no prayer ; 

But as the seasons roll and roll 

The body steals its comfort from the sanctuated soul. 

In my world there is no money and no lament 
For the world to bow, yet tears ; 
Thawed by this sun is a memory in my heart. 
I sit alone against its friendly wall 
Watching many a player before me fall. 



To this land of mine there is no end — 
No treachery in the soul I call my friend — 
No darkness — and no strife ; 
From this infinite I create my life. 

No one to know the dreams I leave 

As Time's shuttle makes the weave 

In this world apart ; 

Spinning threads of light around, and through, my heart ; 

Once more, farewell ! I wish thee every happy hour 

I take thy hand, and lay it on my cheek ; 

I do not ask the, friend, of "Auld Lang Syne" 

Again of by-gone days to speak, 

Nor of their blinded light; 

But once more say : Goodnight ! goodnight ! goodnight ! 



189 



GHB MAJ:KS^ AJ^-D ^HE LA-Oy, 



DRAMATIS PERSON/E. 

BlANCA— Youthful daughter of the house of Destino. 

GiACOMO— Her brother. 

Wallace Peyton— An Englishman. 

Trello — English girl, low caste, disguised as Venetian 

page. 
PiPPO— Son of Bianca. 
Tragedy \ 
Comedy 



Scene — Italy. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — Villamonte. — A Venetian home. Room 
within. Large bed magnificently carved, at one side of 
bed, oratory niche — woman kneeling at prayer, on prieu- 
dieu. Lustrous dark eyes, voluptuous lips, beautiful line 
of cheek, chin and nose, exquisite white hands, a mass of 
reddish-chestnut hair, clustering upon magnificently 
white neck. A patrician of the house of Destino. 

Enter page, removing cap, and bowing. 

Page. In the name of my Master, who would speak with 

La Contessa. 
Bianca. What is the name of your Master? 
Page. He is called Prince — the Prince of all Disaster. 

190 



Bianca. You speak very glibly for your station. 
Page. 'Tis a habit, Contessa, of my nation. 
Bianca. You do not fear. You must be bold. 
Page. Fear, Contessa, is for the old. 
Bianca. How long have you learned so well? 
Page. Forgive me, Contessa, if I do not tell. 
Bianca. Do you understand everything you speak? 
Page. Understanding, Contessa, is not the thing I seek. 

'Tis a message I bring the gracious lady, from 

my Master. 
Bianca. (whispering) — I wonder who this master 
Is, and what he would of me, a girl, 
Would that my father were but here ; 
My head is in a whirl. 
(Aloud) — How long have you been in 
His service ? What brought you hither, 
In attendance on your master's wish to 
Me? How past you my servants at 
The gate? 

Page. My Master sent them to ramble 
Contessa; it is late. 

Bianca. (angrily) — This will never do. A page 
Enters here, on whom I have never 
Cast my eyes, and confuses me, 
With his strange replies — who is he — 
Why thrusts himself unbidden on my prayer 
Answers strangely, looks around 
Him boldly everywhere — self-possessed 
He is — my own people have been taught. 
To stand before me, unspoken, until sought. 
Every owner of Villamonte has left a trace, 
Upon the servant face — not so I — it seems. 



(Lady walks to dressing table between two big windows, 

takes up mirror, gazes -at herself.) 

(Aloud) — I must look in my face to see 

What is lacking in this one of my race — 

I put out my hand ; it does not tremble ; 

I turn around this glass ; it does not dissemble. 

It says that I am fair — the workmanship 

On this silver frame is rare. I can spell aloud 

Our name so proud — Destino. Grandmother 

Did her duty. Grandmother had an eye for beauty. 

But see — let me look again, the reason to unfold — 

Let me look again why yon page 

Is bold, (sitting back on divan overpowered) 

(Addressing page) I asked who was your 

Master? 
Page. Humbly I replied Contessa, the Prince 

of all Disaster. 
Bianca. That tells me nothing. 
Page. Nay, Contessa, that tells you much. 
Bianca. (with passionate gesture) I am not 
Accustomed to hearing those words from such. 
I will ring, and have you conducted hence. 
Page. Nay, Contessa, have some sense. 
Bianca. A servant speaks thus to me ! 
Page. Nay, Contessa, I bend my knee. 
Bianca. That is better, more as it should be, 
A rational self, in one like thee. 
Page, (bowing and muttering to himself.) 
I should like to, but I dare not speak, 
I must play the hypocrite for many a week. 
She is simple, she has temper, is not accustomed 
To submission ; this is likely to be the 

192 



Case of those secure in her position. 

How strange these high ones are ! 

Poor girl, she prides herself on her distinction 

And her rank ; her people have themselves to thank. 

Once I dreamed myself what life might be, 

This was years ago. My Master finds good 

Profit now in me, good profit, that is why Pm 

Bold you see. 

I serve him well, my master, I serve him well. 

This Prince of all Disaster. 

We are those demons who traffic in such as she, 

I can well afford to bend my knee, to the god of necessity. 

With this woman I must be neat, and clean, 

She is not accustomed to the low, and mean, 

She will drive me from her, and I do so love 

To practice on those above. 

She does not appear ever to have loved, or ever 

To have feared. But cheating is our lay, 

We will find a way. 

Just now, it is joy enough for her to know 

She can walk in her garden, here below. 

Lounge, if she wishes, on a bench. 

Peeping, anon, at the sapphire dome, above her. 

Dreaming, as all maidens will, of the coming lover, 

Gazing at the glistening sea, beneath her feet, 

As she waves her fan. 

Thinking, as all maidens do, of the coming man. 

I will go. But will prove to my lady that while 

I am out of sight — 

I, still, am with her, all the night — 

I leave her now to her sculptured fountains, 



193 



Her mosaics, the absent memory of 

Near-by Monastery bell. 

(Aloud) Fair lady, I did not seek to disturb 

Thee, at thine hour of prayer. 

Turn thy gaze to thy Madonna. 

Light the candles everywhere, 

Let holy water be crossed upon thy brow. 

Thy mouth, thy chin. 

(Muttering to himself) I do not pretend to inspiration, 

But I am a genius, who will win. 

Forsooth, I do not ask for truth. 

For 'tis denied me. 

Bianca. (sharply) Thou dost so strange 

Behave, 'tis like coming from a grave 

To hear thee. I am confused. 

I understand you not. My 

Grandmother was a beauty. 

Page. Yes, fair lady, she knew her duty. 

Bianca. She has left me a letter. 

Page. She should have known much better. 

(Muttering) — Her grandmother knew 

No better — nor did her mother. She is 

As the others were, this home is all to her, 

As it was to them; what can such 

Women know of men. However, it 

Will not pay me to make a fuss. 

Page, (aloud) — Take thou, a sail upon the gulf, 

I must leave thee now, 

Permit me, Contessa, to most 

Humbly bow. 

Bianca. Well ! 



194 



Scene II. — Room within the Palace. The same. 
Bianca at prayer. 

Night comes, still I do not sleep — 

Place I, my lady, this chaplet of roses at thy feet, 

Destino, my home, in this ''islet of deep stream" 

Is yet but a mockery, or do I dream? 

Am I brave and beautiful, as befits Venetian maid 

Daughter of Destino, Venetian's highest grade? 

Sweet-mannered the lad did seem 

Yet what could he mean? 

(Opens drawer at side of oratory) — perhaps grand- 
mother will know — 

Here are her letters she wrote long ago — 

And left for me; she loved me so. 

She had her faults, but she knew how to act. 

She was famous for her beauty and her tact. 

(Reads aloud) — No daughter of Villamonte was ever 
anything but a lady. 

(Aside) — Of course not. Grandmother is a baby. 

(Reading) — The candalabra on the tables are to be lit 
every night. 

How could I forget that? Grandmother was right. 

An embroidered carpet to be placed before the shrine 

Of Madonna and to be turned around every day. 

Bianca. (Lifting up carpet and turning — this must 
be the way. 

No servants to enter the lavatories, 

Except Arabs — this their exclusive right — 

Other servants to tolerate no interference 

With their work at night. 

The descendants of the native Egyptian women 

195 



I brought back with me from Cairo, to be preferred as 

nurses. 
Every daughter of the house of Destino, 
Should be a behever in religion, love, hope and faith. 
Much old wine in the cellars of Destino is too heady for 

use. 
There has never been any history of treachery in the men 

of this house. 
There is a book written by the Doge, 
Containing the entire history of Destino. 
God bless my grand-daughter, and may the Virgin keep 

her spotless, and free from sorrow. 
Bianca (to herself) — I thought grandmother would know 

— but I must see Padre Angelo tomorrow. 

Scene III.— Scuola di San Rocco, Venice. Ten years 
later. 

Lady standing and looking at tragic and comic masks, 
hanging near the portrait of a pale extraordinary-looking 
woman, dressed in black, catalogued "a daughter of the 
house of Destino, of tragic memory." 
A man approaches, tall, elegant, and English in appear- 
ance. 
Man. How now Signorina? 
Woman. Pardon, Signor, 'tis not Signorina. 
Man. Where hadst thou been? 
Woman. 'Tis for me to know. 
1st voice (laughing) — 'Tis for her to know. 
2nd voice (deeper) — 'Tis for her to know. 
Man. Who spoke? 
Woman. Just so. Who did. 



196 



Man. Come, maiden, unhinge thy soul, just for 

a httle while. 
Woman. Nay, Signor, I will harden up my soul, 

I fear thy smile. 
Man. You need not unhinge too much ; you need not go 

too far; be content, like Hesper, to be just the 

evening star ; nothing more beyond ; come do 

not be a fool. 
1st voice — To excite my ridicule. 
Man. Who spoke? 
2nd voice. Take full measure, of thy due in pleasure, 

and in joy. 
Woman. Nay, I would not hear again, the story of such 
struggle, and such pain. 
For when pleasure you would have, you 
Strike all chords of woe. 
Pleasure doth but cheat us, as we go. 
Tho' I still am young, in love with life. 
Man. Thou seems to be the genius of unrest — 

hast thou no idle hour? 
Come tell me, is there not, on thee. 
Some compelling power? 
Or, art thou but just a rebel-born. 
Why, art thou always so forlorn? 
Voice, (ha — ha — ha — ) 
Lady, (gazing at comic mask) Why does he 

smile? 
Voice. He was made to smile. Wisdom always 

smiles. 
Wisdom is no glistening stream, 
Nor wind-swept cry, wisdom is a smiling queen. 
Man. Come, my child, what is thy life? 

197 



Woman. I am married — yet not a wife. 

1st voice (echoing) Not a wife. 

2nd voice (echoing) Not a wife. 

Woman. I am just a life. 

Man. Why dost thou gaze at that sufifering face ? 

Woman. Because, Signor, she was of my race. ^ 

Man. I do not gauge the meaning — 

Woman. I, too, am confused at the tradition of 
my house, and the story in that face. 

1st voice (laughing) At the story in that face. 

2nd voice (deeper) At the story in that face. 

Man. And what of thee? 

Woman. Naught, Signor, naught of me. 

1st voice. She is sublime. 

2nd voice. Sublime. 

Woman. And who art thou, thou wert bold 
to bow — 

Man. Don't you know me, now? 

Woman. No, Signor, I do not know thee now. 

1st voice (mocking) Does not know him now. 

2nd voice (laughing) Does not know him now. 
Scene IV. — Garden at Villamonte. 
Sons and daughters of the house of Destino, sitting 

near lake in garden. A youth, handsome and brilliant, 

seeming but some voluptuous caprice of nature, lustrous 

dark eyes, beautiful line of cheek, chin and nose, with 

a mass of reddish-chestnut hair, true patrician of the 

house of Destino. Seeing a stranger approach, he lays 

aside a flute, on which he has been playing. 

Man. Can you tell me, my lad, the history of the or- 
iginal of the portrait in the Scuola di San 
Rocca ? She is said to be a lady of this house, 

198 



Boy. I know nothing, Signor, of such a lady. Perhaps, 

my uncle may know. 
Uncle. Come. I will show. 

(Leading stranger to another apartment in the palace) 
This is all. Just this, and that, a prieu-dieu, 
A portrait, and some letters, an embroidered 
Carpet, that we turn every night, for grandmother 
Comes and prays, and we nearly die of fright. 
This, sir, is the stiletto. 
Stranger. And her name? 
Uncle. Did the catalogue tell her name? 
Stranger. Of tragic memory, it did say. 
Uncle. That, sir, in a catalogue wouia be the way. 
Stranger. Who, then, was the young woman who said 

she was of this race ? 
Uncle. No young woman, sir, who is not here, has any 

place; you may read those lines if through the 

dust, you still can trace. 
Stranger (reading) "No daughter of Villamonte was 
ever anything but a lady." 
Stranger. What does that mean? 
Uncle. No more; no less; 
Why should I confess 
To more, to less ? 

Stranger. I may as well retrace my steps 
From this accursed place, for I 
Am clipped in wing, in thought, in space; 
They mean that here his mother shall 
Never have a place, in life, in death, 
In history, but that boy out in the garden 
Has her face. 



199 



I 31 19U3 



